A Grim Fate
by BlackRoseRaven109
Summary: Reposted of original. See inside for exact reason- A young woman with PTSD from a traumatic childhood joins SHIELD. While at the academy, she meets STRIKE Agent Rumlow and gets thrown into a world of chaos ran by HYDRA. Rated M for graphic violence, language, and sexual themes.
1. Epilogue - Blood Star

**A little copy/paste message to start: BRR109 has pretty much quit the fan fic site. IDK if temporary or permanently. She didn't say. I've known her for years and know she's been going through some really tough IRL shit. After she told me she took down several stories, it pissed me off. So now I'm reposting the ones I remember she talked a lot about. Sorry to anyone who had this story on favorites or followers and it got removed. Idk I'm still learning this whole fanfic thing. I'm just going by what I saw BRR109 do the few times I watched her post something...**

* * *

 **Epilogue - Blood Star**

 _I remember it as though yesterday. It happened all so fast, on the night of my parents' twelfth year anniversary. They were downstairs celebrating late into the night. I could hear them occasionally laughing over a movie in the living room...a wine bottle cork being popped open and the clanking of their glasses against the other in a toast... Hearing them happy made me smile. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid to go to sleep. My father always told me that as long as I went to bed happy, the boogy man wouldn't come get me in my sleep. Being the highly impressionable and over imaginative eight year old that I was at the time, I believed him. That night I just knew everything was going to be alright. Or so I thought._

 _Then it happened._

Jade green eyes snapped open. The little eight-year-old girl they belonged to laid motionless in her bed. She had her white kitty blanket drawn under her chin and her eyes staring in the direction of her closed, bedroom door. Pink letters reading Syra adorned the back of it.

What had just woken her up so suddenly? Screaming, and not just any screaming. The sounds of her mother screaming.

 _At first, I thought my dad had scared my mom, again. But these weren't the screams of being startled from him jumping out at her from around a corner. These were much more horrific. If there was ever a sound to describe sheer horror, what I had heard that night would be it._

The little girl's breathing was becoming more rampant. Sounds of glass shattering silenced the screams, but only for a moment. The glass...it had to be from one of the living room's big storm windows over looking the bay. Or perhaps the coffee table.

Crying. She could hear her mother crying, now. Begging for her life. Who was she begging? What was going on?

Syra couldn't move beneath her covers. She was terrified. Terrified but curious. She could feel warmth encompass her bed sheets beneath her. She was so afraid that she had inadvertently wet her bed. Her tears painted her cheeks, down her neck and into her hair. She could hear her mother continue to beg in sobs.

"Please, don't kill me! _Please!_ What do you want?"

 _Over and over she repeated herself. Begging. Crying. I couldn't take it any longer._

The little girl knew she was going to regret looking to see what was happening but couldn't lay there any more. Her little feet with pink painted nails ignored the kitty house slippers by her bed. Step by step took her closer to her bedroom door; took her closer to the unseen and unknown down stairs.

Her trembling hand hovered above the door handle. More breaking glass downstairs caused the little girl to yelp and leap backwards. Whatever caused it caused her mother to scream out, again. Screaming and begging to be spared.

Syra yanked the door open and ran down the stairs. "Mommy!" She landed onto the floor level and into the living room.

Suppressed gunfire silenced the living room of the terrified cries. Jade green eyes locked onto a man's tall form.

 _Of everything happening that night, he was what I remember the most. He was like a nightmare made real._

Steel blue eyes encircled in black face paint met wide, petrified green ones. He scowled over the top of his black mask covering his lower face. Strands of long, brown hair curtaining his face gave him a more unnerving appearance.

 _Those eyes. So cold. So empty._

Behind him on the couch was the lifeless form of her father dressed down in his blue house robe. In one hand was his wine glass, its red contents spilt onto the couch. In his other was his cigar and between his eyes a single bullet hole.

Syra's attention shifted to her mother's motionless form, sprawled at the feet of the masked man. She was laying face down, dead eyes staring openly into the distance. Crimson started to spread from beneath her body and outwards through the carpet. Shards of glass belonging to the broken coffee table were strewn about her.

 _That's when I realized this son of bitch killed my parents. Why? Why did he kill them?_

"Mommy!" The girl took a hasty step forward to her mother's body, but a shot fired at her feet kept her where she stood.

Syra looked upwards to her parents' murderer. Her eyes fell on the metal arm reflecting the living room light. Standing out in contrast to the silver was a red star on the shoulder. A star as red as her mother's blood.

Syra ignored the man and charged to her mother on the floor. She managed to briefly take hold of her mother's hand before being ripped away. Pain shot throughout her arm tightly held by her assailant's right hand.

One forceful back hand of cold metal knocked her out and sent her to the floor.

 _That's all I remember of that night. When I woke, I was laying in the front yard with a medical team hovering over me. I could see a fire blazing off to the side. Where I had called home was in flames. Judging by the structure of the house starting to weaken and crumble in on itself, the fire had been burning for quite some time._

 _I don't know why he spared me. Why he didn't just shoot me like he did my parents. Was I not worth the bullet? A thorough investigation was done by men in black suits. Men I would have no idea who they were until older. I would then come to find out these suits belonged to a secret government agency called SHIELD. Apparently they were tracking my parents' every move. Listening in on every phone conversation. Everything they did was monitored. Of course I was too young to know this, at the time._

 _It was all explained to me after I encountered this man, again, when fourteen._

 _Spring break '06. By now, I had been taken in by my grandparents. Everything seemed fine and dandy. My Pappi and Grami explained my parents' murder as the work of a disgruntled employee from my father's electrical engineering business. The fire was used as a cover up. Something told me there was more to what was being told. And there was. I learned this the hard way._

 _I was coming home from a Friday night football game to find the nightmare had returned._

A sliding glass door leading to a back porch creaked along its track. Entering through it was a fourteen-year-old girl, her long brunette hair braided over her right shoulder. First glance at the joined dining and living areas revealed something was wrong. Book shelves were knocked over with books and trinkets from shelves littering the floor. Chairs from the dining table were knocked over with one being in splinters. A hole was in the far wall next to where the TV normally was. Beneath it was the out of place coffee table. Who ever had thrown it across the room was obviously strong.

The teen's attention shifted to the kitchen at her left. An artificial bouquet of colorful flowers was now on the floor and the vase shattered around it. Cautiously the teen stepped into kitchen. Crumbled on the floor and gasping for air was an elderly woman. The front of her light blue dress was stained with her own blood. She had been shot in the shoulder and again in the gut.

She held out a trembling hand, soaked in her blood. The teen was quick to take it and knelt down beside the failing woman. "Syra," the elderly woman wheezed, "run. Before he finds you."

"Who? Who's he, Grami?"

 _Her last words forever burned in to me._

"The Winter Soldier."

 _Before I could ask her who that was, gunfire from behind me tore in to my ears. I can still feel the breeze of the bullet fly past my face on its way to its target. Just like that, a single bullet to the head took my Grami away._

The shadow of a man crept across the kitchen tile floor and over the kneeling teen. He could see her body trembling in either anger or fear.

Green eyes traced the shadow's outline and to its source. There, standing feet behind the teen was a horribly familiar man, clad in black clothing. He looked just as he had six years ago with black painted eyes glaring over a lower face mask. Blood splotched the otherwise polished metal of his left arm as blood ran from the shoulder's star. Some of it had dried, some of it fresh.

 _Seeing the red star as it was, then, brought me to know it as the blood star._ _I tried to fight him, but what good that did. He was a wall of a muscle and I a kid. I stood no chance._

Steel blue eyes stared in hatred to the green ones looking up at him in anger. The metal hand around her throat tightened, causing her to gasp and choke for air. She tried to claw at the hand in hopes of fighting it off of her. Tears of desperation streamed down her cheeks and onto the cold metal wrapped around her neck. She could feel the heat of his breath against her face as it escaped through the slits in his mask. There was something unnerving in those blood chilling blue eyes.

He tossed her to the floor and aimed his pistol at her. Without hesitation, he shot her in the left side. He sadistically watched her writhe in pain and clutch at her blood oozing wound before stepping over her and walking away.

 _I kept expecting him to come back. To finish what he started, but he didn't. He left me there to die. I could hear him drive off on a motorcycle minutes later._

 _By the time help arrived, the killer was long gone. The secret organization known as SHIELD was back. I wanted to know why. It took a lot of pressuring and arguing with a black man wearing a trench coat and an eye patch before I got answers. What I wasn't ready to know was that my Pappi and father were once scientists for a terrorist organization called HYDRA. I'd heard of them before in school during world history._

 _My father and Pappi couldn't take doing anymore dirty work for them. So they left. SHIELD took them in and gave them a fresh start in exchange for what information they knew regarding HYDRA. Not even new identities through a special type of witness protection SHEILD offered could stop this Winter Soldier from finding them._

 _After all I had ever known as a family was killed, SHIELD stepped in yet again. I was provided a foster family through the agency, a middle-aged man by the name of_ _Daniel Strickland_ _and a woman slightly younger than him named_ _Rebeca Holloway_ _. While Rebeca more tolerated the agency assignment, Daniel seemed more of the guardian. I felt safe with them, nonetheless. No matter the occasion, though, they had more gadgets and fancy gizmos as well as an entire armory's worth of guns stashed around their house. I guess it's one of the perks of being agents in a technologically advanced espionage agency. Two years after the assignment, Rebeca was transferred overseas for a top-secret mission._ _That was the last I saw of her._

 _I can only hope to be a part of SHIELD one day. To find the bastard that took my family from me and get my revenge. One day... one day..._


	2. Punishment

**A little copy/paste message to start: BRR109 has pretty much quit the fan fic site. IDK if temporary or permanently. She didn't say. I've known her for years and know she's been going through some really tough IRL shit. After she told me she took down several stories, it pissed me off. So now I'm reposting the ones I remember she talked a lot about. Sorry to anyone who had this story on favorites or followers and it got removed. Idk I'm still learning this whole fanfic thing. I'm just going by what I saw BRR109 do the few times I watched her post something...**

* * *

 **1 - Punishment**

This was not where he wanted to be. Agent Brock Rumlow stared in exasperation at the SHIELD academy roughly fifty yards in front of him and clenched his jaw. All the happy agency cadets strolling to their first class of the morning, chatting happily amongst themselves was enough to piss him off even more.

This was his punishment. A punishment for doing his job. So he ignored protocol and went against a direct order. He was not about to lower his weapon when he had a perfect shot lined up on one of SHIELD's most wanted and HYDRA's least liked holding a female junior agent at gunpoint. The barrel of a .9 mil was being pressed against the junior agent's temple as she cried to be spared. Making any unexpected movement could've ended her life with a hairline pull of a trigger. But he wasn't going to allow it.

His own pull of a trigger saved a young agent and helped rid SHIELD of a terrorist they had hunted down for nearly two years. He mostly wanted to take the person out because of a deal that went bad with some HYDRA higher-ups. Now here he was, having to serve punishment by aiding in the instruction of academy cadets for two weeks versus receiving an indefinite suspension from the agency. Was he supposed to be thankful for this? He knew this was SHIELD's doing and not HYDRA's.

Heaving a sigh, the disgruntled agent proceeded in through the academy's front double glass doors. Now to find his person of contact, academy director Agent Davis, and begin his grueling next days' work.

The moment he walked into Agent Davis's office, a sly smile lit up the director's face. He was an older gentleman wearing a dark brown suit over a proud and robust posture. Streaks of grey littered the temples of his otherwise neatly groomed black hair and his dark gaze piercing. "Agent Rumlow. I heard you were to grace my campus with your presence." Davis extended a welcoming hand, the agent accepting it. "It seems you upset the wrong people."

"Yeah… fuck that shit, man." Brock shook his head and closed the office door behind him. "I did what I was supposed to. I did my job."

Davis cut his dark eyes down on the agent, his sly smile stretching further. "By not following orders?"

Brock scoffed. "SHIELD should be sucking my dick right now for taking out one of their most wanted. They'd only been after that guy for years…"

Davis shrugged; a more amused expression on his face now. "Well, I know your actions went unnoticed with a few big names."

That seemed to lighten the agitated agent a little. The STRIKE team leader laughed to himself. "So what bullshit am I going to be stuck with for the next two weeks?"

Davis buried his hands in his charcoal grey suit. "Director Fury insisted on morale speeches, the most. The meaning of teamwork…following orders…" Brock expressed his disapproval with a vocal groan. "But, I feel your expertise could be better used in other classes, such as hand to hand combat and the firing range. I know Fredricks would enjoy your company at the range."

Brock laughed again. "Fucking Fast Freddie. I thought he retired."

"From being an agent. He prefers the civilian life, now…working as an academy instructor instead." Davis observed the field agent as he carefully planned his next words. "I must warn you, however, that by working at the range you will encounter a certain individual in the afternoons."

Brock's attention shot to the academy director. "Oh yeah? Who's that?"

"Agent Mikel Jensen."

"Son of a fucking bitch," quickly left the agent's mouth. Brock's jaw clenched, and his eyes flared in anger. "Seriously? Now I know that mother fucker retired years ago! What the hell is he doing here?"

"Instructing a young cadet on sniper training. She shows promise, despite her disabilities."

Brock's brow furrowed curiously. "What disabilities?"

"Mental. She has PTSD and anxiety." After the agent was done laughing disbelievingly, Davis continued. "Anyway, the first class of the day will start shortly. Director Fury wants a report by the end of each day on what classes you spoke with and at what times."

"Great."

Davis went around behind his office desk to get a piece of notepad paper out of the top drawer. He handed it to the agent to take, Brock seeing it was a schedule. It listed the classes and times he was to assist with.

Before the agent could leave the office, Davis continuing stopped him shy of the closed office door. "Oh and Agent Rumlow, might I suggest you refrain from taking your aggression out on Jensen."

Brock just stood there and stared at the academy director with a deadpan expression. "I can't make any promises."

Davis smirked. "Hail HYDRA."

Brock's deadpan expression morphed into dark delight. "Hail HYDRA," and he left the office.

* * *

Monday morning was the most uneventful and painful three hours he had ever been forced to endure. Two classes over the course of three hours were all about the importance of teamwork. The whole 'there is no I in team' speech had him choking on his words. After the end of the second class, it was eleven-o-clock and time for lunch.

Brock took one look at the crowded cafeteria and turned on a combat booted heel and marched away. He'd rather eat the MRE he had stashed in his backpack somewhere as far away from people as possible. He was on his way out of the cafeteria and checking for any missed messages on his cell phone when he collided with a person in his way.

Any and all snarky comments were cut short on the tip of his tongue the moment his brown eyes locked onto jade green ones. Judging by the frazzled locks of long, medium brown hair curtaining a young woman's face, she was in a hurry. Flustered cheeks of an otherwise fair complexion enforced this.

Her eyes widened in panic, and pale rosy lips tremble with forming words. Jade green orbs quickly darted to the visitor badge clipped to the front of the man's black jacket to see he was a field agent. "M-my apologies, sir." She fumbled with one of the double doors leading out of the cafeteria and opened it for him. "Guess I should pay more attention to where I'm going."

Brock watched the fluster turn a deeper shade, and her eyes revert to anywhere else, but on him. She couldn't be older than nineteen, possibly twenty years old. Kids these days.

He drummed his thumb over his cell phone in his hand for a moment then scoffed. "That's a good idea," was given in curt reply.

The man sneered and briefly met her gaze from the corner of his eye as he passed by her on his way outside. To the parking lot he went and into his black truck he retreated for what hour of peace and quiet he could savor for lunch.

He was halfway through his lunch when he saw the timid green-eyed brunette emerge from the cafeteria. She had a soda can in one hand, and a plastic wrapped sandwich and bag of chips in another. It seemed she wasn't too partial to the long waiting lines, either, and chose something from the quick and easy line.

Brock watched her nestle down amongst the roots under a tree by herself with her back against the massive trunk. He saw this as a cautious act. She didn't want to leave her back exposed while being able to watch her surroundings. Her eyes stayed alert and observant to anyone who strode nearby. She'd cautiously look them up and down as though visually searching them for any potential threat. Once they passed on by, the young woman would continue eating her lunch.

The STRIKE team leader smirked and spoke to himself. "You're a paranoid one, aren't you…looking over your shoulder. What happened, little girl? Uncle Dearest get too touchy?" He took another big bite of his MRE chicken pesto pasta and swigged it down with a gulp from his water bottle. After finishing his lunch, he dug around under the driver's seat for a half a pint of whiskey. "It's one of those days." He took a quick shot, recapped the bottle and stashed it back under the seat.

* * *

Once it was noon, Brock knew it was time to return to his punishment. Just four more hours then he'd be done for the day. Only four more days to go in his first week and then the weekend. After that, it was another five days of hell then back to fieldwork. He slammed his truck door closed and mashed on the electronic key lock aimed over his shoulder to lock it.

He tossed his collection of MRE trash into a waste bin near the parking lot and reached into his cargo pants pocket. The folded-up notepad paper with the schedule on it brushed against his fingertips. Withdrawing it and opening it up displayed the next class he was to assist; the gun range. Oh, this should be fun. No more talking about teamwork. Instead, he would get to show up all the cadet scrubs attempting to shoot a pistol or rifle. Only one problem; Agent Jensen. There were not enough words in any language's dictionary to describe how much contempt he had for the other man.

The trek to the gun range brought back memories of his cadet days. This was the only class during his training at the academy he enjoyed and excelled incredibly at. Well, that and the hand to hand combat course. Everything else as far as the reading and studying was mindless drabble printed on paper.

He followed the sidewalk leading away from the central academy grounds and up and over a hill. Below him and encircled with a barbed wire fence was a beige brick and rust colored metal roofed building. Roughly twenty-five yards on the far side of the building was the actual firing range.

One by one, students wielding rifles filtered out of the building's side door leading to the range to start their day's lesson. Without a care or concern about the cadets, the agent strolled into the brick building. One look at the severe and intimidating features worn on his face had the junior agents scampering out of his way and standing off to the side. Good. At least they recognized a figure with authority.

The familiar smells of gun cleaners filled his nostrils the further into the building he went. Four rows of long tables placed parallel to each other sat in the middle of the spacious room. On the other side of the room was the armory cage where an assortment of training rifles and pistols were kept. Standing behind the cage's window was a face Brock knew all too well; just a bit older than last remembered. He was looking forward to this reunion.

The instructor, an older man in his early sixties with silver grey hair peeking out beneath a ball cap, handed a young male cadet an M-16 rifle. That was when the instructor looked up, seeing Brock standing shy of the cage window. Still the arrogant smirk on his face. Smiling deepened the crows feet wrinkles at the corners of his grey eyes.

"Well look who the director sent me...Agent Brock Rumlow." He extended a hand for the other to take.

"Fast Freddie Fredricks," Brock laughed out.

"How have things been going?"

Brock glanced around at the line of people awaiting their rifle and pistol issue. "They got me stuck here for the rest of the week babysitting these newbies."

Fredricks snickered. "You never did like it here. Always used to complain. Glad to see you again. Maybe you can help me teach these pups a thing or two."

"It'd be my honor." The agent's voice was demeaning in tone. "All I need are the tools for the job."

"I can get you that. Just come on back, Big B, and I'll get you squared away." Fredricks unlocked the armory's two deadbolt locks to allow the visitor access inside.


	3. Broken but Not Useless

**2 – Broken But Not Useless**

Brock visually studied the many pistols and rifles the academy armory had to offer. Meanwhile, Fredricks went to the other side of the armory's vault to select a pistol sitting muzzle down on a rack. The man then went to where the rifles were, getting one of them as well and carried both weapons to the computer by the window. As he began entering the serial numbers to each gun, the field agent watched the cadets ready themselves for target practice.

Not really giving a damn about Director Fury's order, Brock decided he'd remain at the firing range for the rest of the day. Should the SHIELD director disapprove of his going against the schedule, Brock was sure Agent Davis and Fredricks would cover for him.

* * *

Two-o-clock in the afternoon and already Brock had made a handful of cadets cry and a few others disheartened with themselves. Good. They should be. With shitty target practicing like that, they needed to hear the truth. As Fredricks played the good guy by providing false praise, Brock didn't mince words.

As one class left, another arrived. Brock reloaded the expended clip from his pistol followed by the empty spare tucked in his web belt's pouch. Some of the students he recognized from classes earlier in the morning he gave morale speeches to. He wondered how many of the students in this class he could make cry; if it was more or less than the previous ones.

Then his attention fell on one student, in particular, strolling into the building. Instead of the unflattering navy-blue pullover sweater and khaki pants, she wore an open black hoodie with a low-cut grey tank top underneath that teased a little cleavage and black cargo pants. From Brock's point of view, he was able to make out her shapely ass through her pants. This was not what he imagined underneath her previous homely appearance. His gaze followed her to the range armory, Fredricks happily greeting her.

She was then handed a black rifle case and a box of ammo. She turned and strode for a spot to sit at the opposite end of the room to assemble her firearm.

Fredricks finished issuing the rest of the cadets their rifles and joined the field agent. He cleared his throat and spoke in a hushed voice. "Liking something you see, son?"

Brown eyes didn't look away from the cadet. "That's a pretty nice piece that kid has. An M40 isn't it?" Fredricks nodded. Brock arched a brow and huffed a laugh. "Who the fuck is she anyway? And where the hell did she get the money for the rifle? Is Daddy loaded or something?" He watched how meticulously she handled her weapon.

Fredricks chuckled. "That's Cadet Syra Novak. I was quite surprised how well she took to sniper training given how easily triggered her PTSD is. No pun intended. She's got amazing skill and a keen eye. Don't get me wrong she's no Clint Barton by a long shot." The range instructor laughed once more. "Again, no pun intended."

A crease formed between the baffled agent's brow, either from Fredrick's plethora of bad puns or curiosity at the young woman. "So that's the fucked-up kid Davis told me about this morning." Fredricks gave a briefly amused gawk at the agent. "What's her story? How did she come to be so fucked up in the head? Davis told me nothing other than she's broken."

Fredricks leaned in a bit more to the agent and whispered into his ear. "That's something to discuss in privacy." Now Brock was even more intrigued. This went beyond being diddled by a handsy uncle.

To avoid any suspicions should a cadet or few notice his out of character demeanor, Fredricks started arranging some of the out of place pistol cases scattered about the armory. Still keeping some level of caution, Fredricks handed Brock some empty pistol cases and collected two more for himself.

Fredricks hinted the agent join him in the back of the armory. "Help me put these away." Once to themselves, the range instructor explained. "Her family was killed by a HYDRA operative… a ghost known as the Winter Soldier." Recognition of the name hit Brock head on. "SHIELD has had a hell of a time finding this guy throughout the years. She was present for two of his assassinations. He killed her parents when she was eight and her grandparents when she was fourteen. For some unknown reason, she was spared. Why, exactly, is the million dollar question."

Fredricks deeply sighed and continued. "But it's left her traumatized and scarred, and I mean that literally. She's jumpy and extremely paranoid. Refusing to have her back to a door or window… sleeps with one eye open kind of thing. Regardless of all this, she's quite the skilled cadet." By now, his obsessive-compulsive disorder kicked in, and he started to rearrange the pistol cases on the shelves. "Her first time shooting an assault rifle caught my attention. She's not so great with a pistol but is progressively getting better. As she showed improvement on her aim with a rifle, I decided to try her out on one of the academy's M110s. That's when she started one on one lessons with me. By the middle of her first year, her agency appointed guardian requested someone more specialized come work with her."

Brock snarled, "Jensen," under his breath. "That fucking Danish douchebag."

Fredricks shrugged. "Jensen has really pushed her in her training. He's had her practicing three days a week for at least two hours in the afternoons, sometimes three depending on how she performs for the last year and a half. It's like he's never satisfied with her progress, despite her obvious improvements. Other than that, she excels at her academics, too. A real favorite amongst her other instructors."

Brock snorted. "Why are you telling me this? You think I care about some fucked up kid?"

Fredricks paused in his working to intently stare the STRIKE agent in the eye. "It's not just SHIELD she's piqued the interest of. Other...associates...have been keeping close tabs on her training and progress."

Brock cut his eyes down on the older man. "Associates... What associates?"

There was a borderline sinister sparkle in Fredricks' eyes. "Hail HYDRA," softly spilled between his un-moving lips.

Brock crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side. "Let me get this right. It was HYDRA who broke that kid, and now it's HYDRA who wants to recruit her? Why?"

Fredricks shrugged. "Why not? She's not the only one they're interested in. There are approximately thirty-two others that show promise from various career fields just from this campus alone. Agent Davis has been keeping a close eye on these prospects and has asked I do the same. They're young and gullible. Get them assigned to the right supervising officials after graduation to help sway their pro-SHIELD mindset and we have gained thirty-two new members." Brock laughed in disbelief. "All I ask is you do your best not to set off Cadet Novak. We'll need all the help we can get in the coming times. The top dogs are planning something, and it's going to be big. So big, they're not indulging the details to us little guys like Agent Davis and myself. Now you…" Fredricks jabbed a jovial finger into Brock's muscular chest. "You could possibly find out something being STRIKE team leader and all."

Brock half smiled and subtly nodded his head to himself. It was definitely something he wanted to look into, maybe ask questions about with a particular World Security Council secretary. "I'll see what I can find out and get back with you."

Fredrick's serious demeanor looked thoroughly pleased, and he resumed organizing the cases. "As far as Cadet Novak goes…" he turned around to retrieve something on the other side of the armory cage when he noticed they weren't alone.

Standing a few feet from where he and Brock stood was a tall third man clad in a black t-shirt and worn military fatigues. He stood there, unmoving in his observation with toned arms crossed over his chest. Slung over his right shoulder was his AS50 sniper rifle and a pistol holster strapped to his thigh. His expression was placid and his bold chocolate brown eyed gaze lowered. Loose strands of pepper colored hair hung in his face and the muscles of his square jaw flexed in silent anger. Without blinking, the newcomer darted his focus to Brock.

Fredricks cheerfully spoke. "Ah, Jensen! There you are! I was just telling Agent Rumlow, here, about your-"

Jensen barked, "Don't." His tempered gawk settled back on the senior instructor, continuing. "You know you can not disclose personal information of cadets to anyone not needing to know outside the academy." His foreign-accented voice came off menacing and threatening at the same time.

Fredricks clapped Brock on the shoulder. "Just telling her future supervising official some things to get familiar with."

As much as the words rubbed Brock the wrong way, his acidic stare refused to break away from the foreign man. "Jensen."

A subtle twitch teased the underneath of Jensen's left eye. "Rumlow." The two men stared at the other for several moments before Jensen said anything else. "I was not aware you were visiting the academy, today."

When Brock spoke, there was apparent malice for the other in his voice. "For the next two weeks, as it is. I advise you get used to seeing me around."

Jensen's nostrils flared in further growing anger. "Piss off the wrong person again?"

Brock knew he was being mocked and didn't like it. "Some bastard made a poor life decision and ended up on the wrong side of a bullet. My bullet."

The corner of Jensen's thin pursed lips cracked into a sneer. "Still the arrogant and cocky son of a bitch I remember from the last time I saw you."

It was Brock's turn to sneer, a taunting 'come at me' expression smeared across his face. "Can't fix what isn't broken."

"That depends on one's definition of 'broken.'"

Fredricks could tell things were about to escalate to physical violence and took a stance between the two men. "Now, now, gentlemen. Let's not start a fuss. You," he looked at Jensen still unblinking off Brock, "still have a cadet to coach and you," he then shifted is attention to Brock, "don't want your first day's report looking bad for Director Fury, do you?" No response came from either man. Then came the idea how both men were armed with firearms, and he was standing where there would be crossfire. "Right, then. Okay. I'll leave you two to it. Just don't destroy my armory too much." Fredricks left the armory cage and made a beeline for Cadet Novak. She, as well as the other students, anxiously awaited their instructor's orders to go outside. "My apologies for the delay, ladies, and gentlemen. If you'll please head outside and get lined up so we can get your training underway." He saw Cadet Novak get up to do as directed and stopped her. He grabbed her by her upper arm and whispered into her ear. "I need you to do something for me, Syra."

Green eyes looked at Fredrick's questionably. "Okay…I guess?"

"I need you to stop something before it starts. Go into the armory cage and get Mikel, will you? He and our guest are having a bit of a disagreement."

Syra dropped her gaze on the much older man next to her. "Why can't you?"

"Because he won't listen to me, but he will listen to you." Grey eyes stared down into jade green ones.

The young woman heaved a grumble in protest but did as requested. She neared the armory cage's open door and could see the immovable form that was her private instructor. Standing less than three feet from him was the field agent she accidentally bumped into earlier that day in the cafeteria. Just as he appeared intimidating, then, he seemed even more so at that moment.

Syra gently laid a hand on her instructor's shoulder and softly spoke. "It's time for training." The man didn't move or even blink for that matter. She quickly looked at the other man as she continued to usher Jensen away. "Come on, Mikel. Let's go."

Brock could see extreme confliction in the ex-agent's eyes and subtly smirked at his dilemma.

It wasn't until the young cadet stood in front of him that firm eye contact broke. Bold brown eyes met insistent green ones looking up to him pleadingly.

There was a flicker of something in Jensen's eyes Brock quickly noticed. The STRIKE agent gawked at the cadet in realization and slimmed his eyes down on her. She had the renowned sniper wrapped around her finger and probably in a way that would most definitely cost them everything. No doubt she'd suffer extreme reprimand and immediate discharge from SHIELD training. SHIELD didn't take too kindly to fraternization, whether it be between a cadet and instructor or junior agent and supervising official.

Brock decided he'd use this newly learned information in his favor for when he decided to bring that bastard Jensen down finally.


	4. Botched Plans

**3 – Botched Plans**

"What the hell was that?" bellowed Jensen. Brock snickered and did nothing to hide it, either. He didn't care who saw him. Laying on her stomach and at the foreign ex-agent's feet was Syra. She was positioned behind her sniper rifle and aiming downrange. Six shots had been already fired, four of those practice rounds. Jensen watched through Fredrick's high-powered binoculars as another round was shot. "After all this time, you should be better than this."

Syra sighed. "That was a bullseye, sir."

Jensen lowered the binoculars. "While the shot did hit the center circle, it was not dead center. Therefore, it was not a bullseye."

Brock exchanged humored expressions with Fredricks standing three firing lanes down to his left. The instructor shrugged and resumed coaching his students. The STRIKE agent, however, still had a goal to achieve. He wanted to see how many cadets had thick-skinned and who didn't.

Like a shark circling its prey, Brock paced behind a red-headed female. Her grouping was nothing compared to a dirty blond haired male at her right. How the male ejected the expended clip and inserted another full one was fluid in execution whereas the female's wasn't. Once she had fired all her rounds, the red-head sat her pistol down to show she was finished.

Brock stood right behind her and scowled. "I sure as hell hope no agents' lives depend on your marksmanship skills. It's people like you that get others killed."

The cadet gave the STRIKE agent a sour over the shoulder glare. He scoffed at her and walked onto the next cadet he saw with lousy shooting skills. A few minutes later, all the cadets were finished with the first set of rounds finished and stood back for target evaluation.

The junior sniper looked flustered as her instructor tore her performance apart. Curious to see for himself, Fredricks took the binoculars from Jensen. "Her grouping is much more solid, at least."

Brock took the binoculars next. The red bullseye was shredded from bullet fire with three shots damn near dead center. While the shots looked impressive to the untrained eye, the agent knew those shy of the direct center could mean life or death for the enemy target and or their hostage.

He lowered the binoculars and looked at Jensen. "After a year and a half of instructing this girl, this is the best she can do? SHIELD's future is looking pretty grim."

Syra ran her hands over her face in exasperation.

* * *

Come the evening time, Brock was ready for a drink. More than ready, actually. By eleven-fifteen that night, what used to be the half pint of whiskey from his truck was empty. The bottle laid beside the couch of the hotel room he was staying in as the agent was passed out asleep.

* * *

Six-fifteen in the morning arrived earlier than Brock would've liked. It took mashing the snooze button half a dozen times before attempting to wake up. A much-needed hot shower helped relieve a headache he felt was splitting his skull open. He stood there, relaxing in the water that ran through his disheveled hair and down his back. Tilting his chin by just a minor amount had the water streaming across his face and chest next. He rinsed the lingering aftertaste of whiskey out of his mouth, knowing he was going to reek of alcohol later when he started sweating it out during hand to hand combat training. Like he gave a shit either way. What was SHIELD going to do? Reprimand him some more? Discharge him from the agency? Little did SHIELD know they were losing strength in numbers. Already HYDRA had a good portion of the agency amongst their ranks, and those numbers were only increasing. Undercover operatives infiltrated all levels from newbie graduates to council members.

The thought of HYDRA's eventual global domination had Brock smiling triumphantly. It was only a matter of time before their goal was made a success. Until then, he was ordered to continue playing SHIELD's bitch boy as were the other operatives.

The shower water was turned off, and a towel grabbed off the hook just outside the closed shower curtain. Time to get the day started.

* * *

Across town, another alarm clock was going off. Syra lost count how many times she dismissed her phone's alarm thus far in exchange for another five-minute increment of snoozing. Morning time was the most hated as it was not her favorite part of the day. She was naturally a night owl and had a bad habit of staying up past midnight.

She decided to disable her phone's alarm and rolled over to snuggle against a pillow on the opposite side. Given how that side of the bed was cold, the young woman knew its other occupant had been awake for some time. That's when she noticed the shower water running in the bathroom down the hall of the two-bedroom apartment.

Syra adjusted her hand on the pillow and looked at it. Sparkling on her ring finger was a diamond ring. She thumbed the precious piece of jewelry around her finger, knowing it could cost her everything she had worked for. To say she didn't care or wasn't worried it could come to that was a lie. It scared the hell out of her every damn day.

The shower water turned off, and a few minutes later Jensen came into view with a towel around his waist. He took one look at the young woman still bundled under the ivory colored down comforter and sighed.

Jensen sat down on the side of the bed to find Syra's attention on her ring. "Come on, love. It's time to get dressed for class."

"Fuck off," came quicker in reply than the man was expecting.

"Normally I would take you up on that offer but…" he looked at the time on her phone, "it's getting short on time."

The cadet snickered. "Do you think they'll ever find out?" She rolled over to look up into the bold brown eyes gazing down at her.

"If we're not careful, they could. Which is why I'm constantly telling you we must do whatever we can to avoid suspicions."

Syra didn't really like that answer. "What will happen to us after I graduate the academy?"

"Well…SHIELD has been asking me to return to active agent status." Jensen took the woman's left hand in his and entwined his fingers with hers. "I could accept that position and ask to be your supervising official."

"What if they say no? And you and I get assigned to different countries?"

The man laughed and kissed the top of Syra's hand. "Then I will do whatever it takes to be with you again." He kissed her hand again and nuzzled his cheek against it. "You're my wife. Nothing, not even life or death, will make me stop loving you." Syra felt as though she were about to melt through the bed in heartfelt emotions. "Now get up and start getting ready before you're late for class…Cadet Jensen."

Syra giggled and mocked s salute. "Sir, yes sir!"

* * *

"Fuck…this…shit," Brock groaned out loud to himself within the confines of his truck. He downed the rest of his morning coffee in one gulp and tossed the empty polystyrene cup into the passenger side floorboard. "One day down, only nine more to go."

The displeased agent looked at the notepad schedule for Tuesday. He saw he was supposed to attend the hand to hand combat training classes that afternoon but decided against it. It would be after lunch, and he already knew there was a student or few he planned to teach an extra good lesson to. Last he wanted was to get thrown up on after roughing someone up the wrong way. Come to think about it, not like the morning time was going to be any better. Cadets coming into class with a big breakfast on their stomach would end up much the same way as the post-lunch classes. At least he brought his gym bag full of extra changes of clothes. He already expected a weak stomach in each class, if not more, and thought it best he be prepared.

The more he thought about it, the more he decided on morning training. By 'assisting' with the course in the morning time, he'd end up seeing some of the students again that afternoon during their academic classes. Maybe looking at a room full of busted lips and black eyes would make his morale speeches that more entertaining. Should Director Fury disapprove of this last-minute decision, Brock would just argue his previous thought process; he didn't feel like wearing someone's lunch.

With that, he got out of his truck, locked it and retrieved his gym bag from the tail bed. To the academy gym he strode, unaware of the devious smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. He paid no mind to the many cadets he weaved through in the building corridors until he saw her. Brown eyes locked onto familiar green ones passing by. Unlike yesterday's frazzled and rushed appearance, today she looked fresh-faced and well rested. A light blue headband held back her long brunette hair that cascaded over her slender shoulders. His gaze lingered on her a bit longer than it should have for why he wasn't sure.

Once at the gym, he proceeded inside and walked up to the class's instructor, Agent Tomas Ramirez. He was a tall and well-fit Hispanic man in his early forties, and someone Brock knew was pro-SHIELD. Brock's first thought was to punch Ramirez in the jaw as he reached out for the hand offered in a welcoming shake but refrained. He instead accepted the handshake and bit out what he hoped was a convincing friendly smile.

"Agent Rumlow, I was under the impression I was to expect your company this afternoon!" Ramirez patted the other man on the shoulder joyously.

As if that didn't further piss off the agent. It would take no effort at all to break the offending hand. Brock had to remain professional, though, and keep up his undercover façade. He shrugged and chuckled. "I see this as my morning workout."

"Oh…okay. That's good, I suppose. Just take your workout easy on these pups. They're part of my first years."

Brock almost busted out laughing. He couldn't have timed his assisting with the class any better! Ten minutes after eight and the twenty-something cadets were dressed out in their gym uniforms. The first person he laid eyes on was the red-head from the firing range the afternoon before. Her pale legs shined under her shorts which stood out in contrast to her tanned arms. She took one look at the field agent and gulped. Oh yeah, he was going to make her eat the mat first and not in a good way.

* * *

One unconscious cadet, two with threatening black eyes and one with a busted lip after an hour and fifteen minutes later, Brock was washing speckles of blood off his knuckles. Leaning against the wall of the joined shower room and restroom was Ramirez.

Beady coal black eyes held apparent disapproval of the STRIKE agent's methods of assisting in instructing. "Was it really necessary to bust that kid's lip?"

"Since when did hand to hand combat start pampering babies? It's called hand to hand combat for a reason, Tommy."

Ramirez aimed a hand at the stiff and sore students slowly filtering out of the showers and into the locker room. "I told you they're only first years! They're still learning the basics to defensive stances! They're not ready for harsh lessons, yet." Brock turned off the water and dried his hands off on a towel from his gym bag. He glowered at Ramirez; tongue pressed firmly into the roof of his mouth to avoid verbally going off. "If you're looking to assist with more experienced students than I suggest stopping back by for my third and fourth-period classes after lunch."

Brock was a bit disappointed by this. He couldn't enjoy breaking the newbies. Then again, more experienced cadets might mean more of a challenge. Not the kind of challenge his fellow STRIKE team members gave during their occasional sparring practices, unfortunately. "What years are those classes?"

"Second years in third and third years in fourth."

Brock stuffed his towel back into his bag and nodded. "Copy that." He slung the bag over a shoulder and left the shower room. The urge to laugh out loud again almost took hold of him as he watched the traumatized first-year cadets fall over themselves getting out of his way.

* * *

When lunchtime came around, Brock went straight back to his truck. Today was not going according to plan. At least yet anyway. There were always tomorrow's academics classes to see the results of today's ass whoopings on the faces of the afflicted cadets. Surely by then, most if not all of the bruising would have surfaced. He reached into the backseat and blindly grabbed another MRE from his stash box. He didn't bother reading what today's random selection was as he tore the bag open and dumped the contents into the passenger seat. From the corner of his eye, a light blue headband got his attention. The timid sniper in training sat down against the same broad tree as yesterday and opened a bag of pretzels she had in her backpack.

For the rest of Brock's lunch break, he watched the young woman fleck off the excessive salt on her pretzels before eating them. Just like the day before, she was alert and attentive to her surroundings. He remembered what Fredricks had told him, how she wasn't just psychologically scarred from her past but physically too.

He huffed a laugh at the twisted humor running through his head. "Point on the doll where the bad soldier hurt you."

Then she went motionless. Green eyes glossed over with a distant stare. It was as though she was in a trance for several moments, a pretzel held in her right hand and her trigger finger sliding over it. Just like that, she snapped out of it when a pair of cadets walked past.

And HYDRA wanted to recruit her. Brock had a strong feeling that was a bad idea. Or perhaps, it could be a good thing. Some of the best HYDRA masterminds weren't exactly right in the head, either.


	5. Questionable Instructional Methods

**4 – Questionable Instructional Methods**

One by one they entered the gym and went straight to the locker rooms. Males were on the left, females on the right. Brock was observing each cadet in their passing, sizing them up and quickly pointing out the weak ones from the strong. Amongst the students was a light blue headband. His eyes stayed focused on her until she went out of sight around the locker room corner. When Agent Davis and Fredricks said her PTSD was easily set off, it brought to question just how so. Curious thoughts filled the STRIKE agent. He was willing to find out.

Eight minutes later and the cadets were lined up and ready for instruction. Brock took in every detail of the green-eyed brunette. Her hair was now pulled back in a ponytail and her face makeup free. He was somewhat impressed by how toned her slim frame was under her black tank top and black and white shorts. It meant she regularly worked out. Bruises dotted her shins and knees as well as her elbows and back of her forearms. It was a question of whether or not she obtained them during this class or suffered some form of physical abuse outside of classes. A few of her other classmates were just as fit while a couple of others were more muscular. Standing off to the side was what Brock could only describe as a wimp. His wiry frame and freckled face made him look something of a cartoon character rather than an agent in training. He was conflicted. Did he want to play with the broken toy or the wimpy one?

Brock let Ramirez give his spiel and watched as the class did their warmups. Ramirez paced through the left rows of students as Brock patrolled the right. In one of the right rows, a young female African-American cadet looked as though made of pure muscle. Each push up she did had the muscles in her arms flexing. The field agent mentally placed her on his list of cadets to challenge. Something told him she had a mean right swing, possibly even a left one too. That was okay. The last time he had a note-worthy sparring match with a female was a couple of weeks ago with Agent Romanov. Now that was a fun warm-up!

Brock continued to stroll through the students when his attention fell on a short blond-haired female. Her form during push-ups was embarrassing. He loomed over her with arms crossed over his chest. "Straighten your back, cadet." She did as she lowered herself to the floor. "Go lower. You're not going low enough." He heard a faint groan escape her throat from the strain the next time she lowered herself. "Better get used to doing things the right way because half-ass isn't going to cut it in the field."

Ramirez glowered at the assisting agent. He planned to have a talking to with Agent Davis about this individual. Such mannerisms were unprofessional and demeaning to the cadets.

After warm-ups concluded came the part Brock was only too eager to get to; the main reason for the class. The cadets circled the gym's center mat as instructed by Ramirez for the day's lesson. "Okay ladies and gentlemen," Ramirez began with a chipper smile on his face. "Today we're going to practice pinning down an opponent."

Brock was staring intently at the young woman he knew as Novak, positioned at the back of the group. How she held her arms close to her chest defensively relayed nervousness and unease. This made the agent wonder why. Was it because of her PTSD? Or was it because he was right about her being possibly abused outside the academy? Either way, she most definitely had a tipping point, and he wanted to push that as far as he could.

Ramirez finished his pep talk and gestured to the assisting agent at his right. "Agent Rumlow, here, has agreed to take time out of his busy work schedule to assist with academy instruction for the next two weeks. He's very skilled in hand to hand combat, so anything he tells you…listen!"

The STRIKE agent's eyes shot over to the African-America woman anxious to get her energy out. Her unblinking, dark gaze was set squarely on him. She wanted to tussle, did she? He admired her bold spirit.

Ramirez continued. "Any volunteers for this lesson's first demonstration?"

Several hands shot up in the air; the African-American's one of them. Brock gave her a sideways grin. As tempting as it was to see what she had to offer, he already had his mind set on who he wanted first. Brown eyes locked on to green ones. He pointed at her and barked, "You."

Syra felt her stomach lurch into her throat and gasped through slightly parted lips. Go figure. The field agent urged her forward with a beckon of his fingers, and she reluctantly obliged. She was used to training with Ramirez, a few of her classmates and Jensen. While her secret husband tended to be rough and sometimes unforgiving in their one on one lessons, he at least knew when he went too far. He'd always stop and let her calm down should he inadvertently set off a panic attack. But would this visiting agent be the same way? He came off as one to prey on the weak, as she saw at the range yesterday.

For someone reason, he had her in his sights and wasn't sure why. Was it because she accidentally bumped into him yesterday at the cafeteria? And he wanted to show some dominance, now? Or was this because someone in the academy staff said more than they should have about her personal information? Whatever the reason, Syra knew there was no point in trying to weasel out of this guy's radar.

She took a stance before the intimidating figure and recalled all the things Jensen had told her in their past lessons. She forced her body to relax and her breathing to remain steady, never mind her heart feeling as though about to explode out of her chest.

Brock snorted at the cadet. "I hope you left your Huggies in the locker room."

Syra was taken back by the comment and blinked in surprise. Did he just call her a baby? Without hesitating or thinking of the consequences of her actions, she mindlessly blurted, "Only if you left your Depends at home, old man."

Several students choked out a laugh. Ramirez's jaw hit the floor in appall. Brock arched his brows and smirked at the comment. "Oh, ho, ho! You're a mouthy one, aren't you?"

Syra instantly regretted what many called her biggest flaw; her smart-ass attitude. She wanted to apologize in hopes of it lessening what she knew was about to be an epic ass beating of a demonstration. No doubt doing so would only make her look weaker. It was too late to turn back, now. Might as well own it and accept whatever it was this man was about to do to her. How many ways could someone tie another into a knot using their arms and legs? She was about to find out.

* * *

After the first round of sparring, Brock could already see the corner of Novak's mouth starting to swell. He was taking it easy on her and wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he wanted to savor playing with this broken toy as long as he could before time to put it back on the shelf. There were other cadets he wanted to duel, after all. Despite her much more novice combatting skills, he had to compliment her on her reflexes and ability to parry some of his attacks. Those bruises on her elbows and forearms were starting to make sense, now. He was wrong about the possibility of her being abused. What he didn't expect, however, was her getting private hand to hand combat lessons outside of the academy. For cadets to pursue this on their own time was nothing new. He just didn't expect it from someone like her.

Syra licked the incredibly sore and swollen lump at the corner of her bottom lip and stepped forward to resume the duel.

Brock gladly accepted. In less than six moves, he had her lying face down on the mat with her right arm painfully bound behind her back. He was positioned over her and using his upper body to keep her pinned down.

Syra struggled against him, but it was no use. His larger and stronger frame was almost smothering hers.

The agent lowered his head and spoke into her ear. "Not so much of an old man, now am I?" The young woman gave another vicious struggle in protest. "Better watch your attitude, little girl, before someone adjusts it for you." As close as he was to her, the sweet smell of her hair filled his nostrils. "And they might not be as easy on you like I am."

The tone of his gravelly voice so close to her ear sent a shiver down Syra's spine. His hot breath washed along the side of her neck as the stubble on his chin scratched across her shoulder. "I get it," she growled back. "Now get off me."

Brock chuckled. He spoke loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. "Best thing to do in this situation is re-think your life decisions on what brought you to this moment. Before you even make a move, whether defensive or offensive, think of all the ways it can fail and how you can adjust. Always have a follow-up plan." He sneered down at the corner eyed hateful stare he was receiving from the young woman. "So you don't end up as somebody's bitch." He slowly released the apprehended cadet, expecting her to lash out in retaliation physically, and stood up.

Brock offered her a hand in assistance to her feet, which she took after a moment of debate. The callouses on her hand were unmistakable of those belonging to a frequent shooter. He didn't say anything else to her as he watched her shuffle off the mat in defeat.

The agent looked at the African-American and smirked at her. "You next."

The cadet popped her neck and stepped forward.

* * *

On her way to her next class, Syra had an ice pack pressed against her face. She also wore her backpack over her left shoulder instead of the right since it was sore from being compromised. The aching young woman trekked into her last class of the day, Language Encryption, and Deciphering, and slowly sat down in her assigned seat. When she looked up, she instantly locked eyes with the brown ones of Agent Rumlow wearing a different change of clothes than earlier before.

Brock cheered. "Hey, hey! It's Huggies!"

The cadet groaned. "Not you, again!" The field agent only laughed, Syra rolling her eyes.

"How's your lip?" he jeered.

Syra wasn't about to take this man's bullying. "Tell me, sir, were you able to get all of Williamson's puke out of your sneaker?"

Brock cut his eyes down on the young woman and grinned comically at the memory. He knew there would be a weak stomach at one point in the hand to hand combat classes and the lanky freckle face was it. One knee to the gut to pin him down had the cadet spewing his lunch all over the agent's leg, shoe and training mat.

* * *

Because of the visiting agent, the Language Encryption and Deciphering class took a different turn. The first part of it was uneventful as they got. And humiliating. Every time the visiting agent had a question and wanted an answer, he called on green eyes. He knew she would have trouble talking, given her swollen lip, which is why he couldn't help but keep calling on her. It made him snicker every time she tried to answer through slurred speech.

Despite the fun Brock was having at Novak's expense, it was time to get to business. The primary class instructor, a leggy and attractive middle-Eastern woman, named Angela Moseph, was yet another pro-SHIELD agent. Brock knew if there were any instructor capable of ruining his report to Director Fury, it'd be her.

Brock straightened his posture and cleared his throat. "Teamwork. What it is and what it means. It's not just going on a mission with several people to accomplish something but working together as one. It's about communication…coordination and most of all, trust. If you can't trust every single person in your team, then it's not a team."

* * *

By the end of class, Brock needed a drink right then and there. The only thing that drove the genuineness of his words was his STRIKE team. Every one of them had proven themselves reliable and loyal to not just him but to HYDRA as well. On numerous occasions, Jack Rollins had covered his ass without question or delay. Mitch Clark even took a bullet for him, once; something Brock would never forget. The rest of his team, Reed, Lorne, and Brody had earned his trust in their own ways as well.

The man unlocked his truck and got into the driver's seat. What had only been two days already felt too damn long and drawn out. He could only hope something serious would happen that required the specialties of he and his team. Something, anything to get out of the drudgery he found himself in.


	6. Fear and Trust

**5 – Fear and Trust**

Wednesday, Thursday and finally Friday. None could be happier for the weekend than Brock. It was a much-needed break from the bitch work he had been stuck doing the past week. Before he could even fathom continuing that the following week, he needed several drinks. He could tell it was going to be one of those weekends where one drink was too many, and twelve wasn't enough.

Come early Saturday afternoon, the agent had sobered up enough to do something more with his weekend than drink and sleep it away. Which brought to question, what would he do? First things first, a shower. He reeked of booze and needed to wash off badly. Post-shower, he was rummaging around in the hotel room's dresser for a clean change of clothes. When he picked up a pair of black cargo pants, he found his custom SIG-Saur P226 underneath. A smile crooked his lips.

He picked it up and sat down on the bed to make a phone call. Thumbing through his contacts brought up Fredricks' name. Seconds later, he was calling the academy range instructor.

The other end picked up and Fredricks answered. "Hello?"

Brock admired his favored pistol in the Saturday sunlight filtering in through the cracked hotel blinds. "What would it take to shoot a few rounds down range over in your neck of the academy?"

"Nothing? Show up, is all. I have Cadet Novak, here, doing her routine weekend training." That was all the STRIKE agent needed to hear.

Brock quickly hung up the phone and leaped to his feet. He tossed it and the pistol onto the bed and immediately started getting dressed. There was a sense of urgency in his actions. He blamed it on being anxious to shoot some stress out, but there was more to it than that he didn't want to admit to himself.

Along the drive to the academy, the man stopped off for some coffee to help him wake up a bit more. As if he needed to. He was already pretty wound up and antsy to arrive at his destination. When he finally reached the academy, he chose to park behind the firing range's beige brick building. There was only one other car there, a red Acura, that he knew belonged to Fredricks. That old man had only driven that car since before accepting the instructor position.

A part of Brock became subconsciously bitter. He'd missed her. Wait, why was he bothered by this? She was a kid; some stupid cadet. What did it matter? As he got out of his truck, he heard a series of pistol fire break the otherwise calm afternoon air. Must be Fredricks laying waste to a target, himself.

The agent strolled around the building, his SIG-Sauer strapped to his thigh, and saw her. Cadet Novak was at a firing lane and practicing with a .9 mil pistol instead her sniper rifle. Standing behind her was Fredricks observing her. How she was dressed was drastically different than how he saw her previously in the week. A white wife beater tank top hugged her body's curves as worn grey sweatpants flattered her backside. Her hair was pulled back in a high pony that was shy of being directly atop her head. He liked the look on her, except for the ridiculous ponytail.

Syra saw a dark clothed form approach her from her left and stopped shooting for a second to see who it was. "For fucks sakes, _really_?"

Brock smirked. "What up, Huggies!" It was painfully noticeable she hated his new nickname for her. She rolled her jaw and subtly curled her upper lip in detest.

"Does the nursing home know you left?" Syra shot off another two rounds into her target.

Brock leaned against the lane's post. "Yep. Got my permission slip right here." He patted his pistol on his thigh. "What about you? Decide to sneak away from your babysitter?"

The young woman shot off the last three rounds and glowered at the agent. She didn't take her eyes off him as she ejected the empty magazine and set it aside. Those green eyes had an edge to them that taunted the agent to keep mouthing off.

Fredricks intervened. "Now, now, let's play nice."

Syra scoffed. "I am. I haven't shot him…yet." She slid off her hearing protection and safety glasses and marched down range to get a closer look at her target.

Brock mumbled under his breath, "I'll shoot you with something." Apparently, his words didn't go unnoticed by Fredricks. A sharp jab in the arm got his attention. "What?" He quickly realized what he said and struggled to correct himself. "You have a lot of guns in that shack of yours, Freddie. I can easily take her out with any caliber bullet."

Fredricks snorted. "That's not what you meant." The older man strode off to join the young cadet.

The air around Brock started to get a bit hotter as his embarrassment simmered under his shirt collar. What in the hell was going on with him? Why was he suddenly like this? He was never like this, so lacking in composure. Usually, he had his shit together, but not today. It was all because of that damn cadet. She was like a parasite, boring into his subconscious and plaguing his mind.

* * *

Thirty minutes into range practice and already Brock had to change out his target. The bullseye of the chest and head were utterly shot through. Meanwhile, the cadet to his right wasn't faring so well. While her grouping wasn't bad, he had seen a lot better. The agent took a minute to watch her. Even though she had shot a pistol plenty times in the past, she still seemed to be afraid of it.

Brock re-holstered his SIG-Sauer and stood behind the young woman. Her body was tense and her posture awkward. He glanced around for Fredricks but didn't see him anywhere. So, he decided to do a little instruction himself.

Syra felt uncomfortable with the agent lingering behind her. Green eyes shot an over the shoulder gawk at the alert agent as though visually telling him to piss off.

He didn't care. Brock pointed at the target. "Whatever that is, it's not shooting. Your aim is all over the place. Why? Because you're afraid… _of that_!" His gesture then went to the pistol in her hand. "Look, you can't let whatever fucked up shit happened in your childhood affect you now. You're training to be an agent. Act like one!" The young woman's eyes reverted off the man and to the firearm in her grasp. "What's going to happen when someone has a gun to your head? Are you just going to freeze up? Or are you going to grow a set of balls and fight back?" Brock waited for an answer that never came. "You know what, I'm going to show you it's the pistol you should be afraid, but the person behind it." He snatched the .9 mil from her hands and set it down. "Go stand down range."

"What?" Syra spun around to stare wildly at the agent. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

Brock took a step closer to the cadet and growled inches from her face, "Go…stand…down…range." He grabbed her by her upper arm, ignoring her verbal protests and shoved her onto the grass. "Go!" Panicked jade orbs were desperate in their silent pleading for the agent to change his mind. It pulled a part of him he thought he had long since ridden himself of. "Trust me," he stated in a more reassuring tone of voice.

Syra slowly back peddled until she collided with the target behind her. Her eyes were glazed over with threatening tears, and her body quaked in an anxiety attack. Brock raised his pistol and rested the sites on the young woman's head. Even from a distance of twenty-five yards, he heard her whimper.

Another tug of guilt swelled within him. She appeared so fragile and vulnerable at that moment. Brock called to her. "Breathe, cadet…breathe. And whatever you do…do not…move." Easier said than done. Syra's breathing was labored and knees shaking beyond her control. She yelped a cry when she saw the agent wrap his finger around the trigger. "Keep your eyes on me. On the count of three, okay? One…two…thr-" _BANG_!

Syra felt the air of the bullet whiz dangerously close to the top of her head and impact the target. Not even a second later, her unrestrained hair fell to her shoulders and in her face. That son of a bitch shot her hair tie!

Brock put his pistol on safe and re-holstered it. The cadet wasn't moving where she stood, and he wondered if he had put her in a catatonic state of shock. He trudged down range and snapped his fingers in front of her face. She was hyperventilating and staring off into the distance with eyes about to pop out of their sockets.

He snapped his fingers again. "You awake in there? Hello! Earth to Novak!"

"Fuck you." Her words were barely audible through her fervent pants.

"Guess what, you're still alive and uninjured." Brock moved aside stray strands of brunette hair sticking to the young woman's tear-sodden cheeks. "Now calm down." He patted her on the shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "As I said, it's not the weapon you need to be afraid of, but the person wielding it. You need to learn how to keep your fear in check, especially when you're out in the field."

"I hate you."

Brock huffed a laugh. "Yeah, well, you're not the first woman to tell me that." The agent saw the split hair tie on the ground and picked it up. He held it up for the cadet to see and arrogantly smiled. "What do you make of that?"

Syra swallowed the bile surging into her throat and weakly spoke. "I think I need to change my Huggies."

* * *

Thunder rolled through the clouds of the stormy night. Some of the thunder was even loud enough to wake Syra. She jerked upright in her bed, eyes full and breathing rampant. Realizing it was only the thunder and not gunfire, she plopped back down on her pillow. For several minutes she laid there and calmed her adrenaline charged nerves. She knew if Mikel were there, he'd tell her everything was okay. How she was safe, but was she really? Constantly being alarmed by loud and sudden noises was getting old with the young woman. She wanted to be free of her fear and hoped by now she would have overcome it given how much time she spent at the academy firing range. It appeared that was not the case.

Syra rolled over and checked the time on her cellphone. It was only two-twelve in the morning. Then her attention fell on the split ponytail sitting on her nightstand. She reached out and took the item and rolled it around in her fingers. Why she kept it she didn't know. Perhaps as a reminder of Agent Rumlow's words at the range. He was right. She needed to stop being afraid. She just wasn't sure how.


	7. Beautful Broken

**6 – Beautiful Broken**

Early Monday morning sunlight intruded Brock's hotel room through a crack in the drawn curtains. Go figure that one sliver of light had to shine right in his eyes. He rolled over to escape the probing beam of light and got comfortable again. Sleep started to take him over when his phone's alarm went off. Was it really time to get up?

Brock rolled back over, making sure to position himself, so the sun wasn't in his eyes, and silenced his alarm. His groggy eyes rested on his pistol on the nightstand and wondered which would be better; using it on himself to avoid the academy for the rest of the week or on the pain in the ass pro-SHIELD cadets he couldn't stand. Novak. The thought of her injected a rush of something into Brock's veins he couldn't quite identify. Frustration? Annoyance? That rush of something started to build within his boxers the longer he thought about the cadet.

"Son of a bitch." The STRIKE agent threw the bedsheets off and stomped to the bathroom for his morning shower. "I'm going to beat the shit out of that girl in hand to hand combat, today." Brock started the hot water in the shower and took a moment to think about the schedule Davis gave him. Novak didn't have that class until Tuesday afternoon after lunch. "Fucking hell."

* * *

Monday afternoon and Brock was at the firing range. His brown eyes focused on the target Novak had stood against during his lesson on her overcoming her fear. In his mind, he could still see her standing there, jade green eyes full of tears in a silent plea.

Fredricks' voice erupting in his ears grounded the agent back into reality. "Another day, eh my boy?"

Brock sighed. Cadets coming for their last class of the day trickled into the beige brick building. The man kept his peripheral vision alert for one person in particular. Three minutes later, here she came trudging to the firing range grounds.

Syra didn't bother visually acknowledging the agent in her passing, though she could feel the weight of his stare. She walked on by, not even smiling or greeting Fredricks as she usually did.

Brock studied every detail about the young woman for that day. She was back in her black pants and wearing a slightly worn black hoodie. Instead of the solid black one from the week prior, this one had a picture on the back. It was of the grim reaper, his scythe held at an angle before him with blue smoke pouring from the eye sockets.

Fredricks smiled cheerfully. "Looks like it's time to get to work! Will you be in need of a piece? Rifle? Pistol?" Without saying a word, Brock patted his thigh holder with his SIG-Sauer tucked away inside it. "Ah, I see. Brought your own, this time. I like it!" Fredricks turned and rushed away inside the building.

Fifteen minutes later and the students were emerging outside with their issued pistols on their hips. Brock saw Novak follow up last and knew it had to be because of her paranoia. Even her sniper instructor came outside before she did. The STRIKE agent wondered if Jensen knew just how broken his student was. Come to think about it, did _he_ really know? Sure, Brock had watched her actions from a distance and witnessed bits and pieces of panic attacks, but was that all there was? Or was that just the tip of the iceberg? So, he might've made fun of her PTSD and anxiety disabilities more than once. The hype about her mental issues was either over exaggerated, or she had a better handle on it than he gave her credit for. Perhaps she was passed the Huggies stage and into the Pull-Ups part. Even if so, calling her Pull-Ups wasn't as amusing and degrading as Huggies.

Pistol practice started. Brock watched Novak's handling of her weapon and noticed she wasn't as afraid of it as she was Saturday. It seemed his lesson with her helped strengthen her to some degree. Her grouping was better, too.

Hazel eyes boring holes into him couldn't be ignored anymore. Brock glared menacingly at Jensen. Both the men's' hands went to their thigh holstered pistols subconsciously. Fredricks saw this and was convinced that for just one moment, they didn't care what reprimand came from their attempt to kill the other. He cautiously approached his fellow HYDRA comrade and took a stance directly in front of him.

As close as he was, Brock could hear him say, "Don't. You could hit the girl," over the pistol fire.

Jaw muscles flexed in a painful debate. The agent observed the mentally damaged cadet focused on her target practice through his peripheral vision. Where Jensen stood in comparison to the young woman did put Novak in possible harm's way. Without immediately realizing it, Brock removed his hand from his pistol.

Fredricks breathed a sigh of relief and patted the agent on a muscular arm in gratitude.

Syra finished the last of her allotted ammo, put her Beretta on safety and ejected the empty magazine. As she holstered her pistol and slid the magazine in her web belt's pouch, she noticed Mikel unmoving where he stood. He had his right hand resting on his holstered gun, and his other hand clenched into a fist. This unnerved her incredibly. She glanced at this concrete expression and then over to the offending source to see Agent Rumlow. What was it about that guy that kept her husband so pissed off? Syra rolled her eyes. She wasn't about to get involved with this and stepped away from the firing line of her range lane to show she finished.

Brock sneered. Now that the girl was out of the way… His hand started to go back to this pistol when someone bumping into him quickly reverted his attention. It was the red-head. "Watch where the hell you're going, Carrot Top!"

It took a moment for the words to sink into the woman. When they did, her jaw hit the floor and eyes glaze with tears. Fredricks about had a heart attack on the spot. Nearby cadets paused in their practice to gawk at the visiting agent. Syra snickered.

After practice, not much had changed in the demeanor of the tempered men. Once the students retreated into the building to clean their weapons, Brock and Jensen remained outside. Neither was sure who struck first, but fists hurled through the air at the other. Every blow made to the other further enraged them.

Then something took hold of Brock's fist. At first, he thought it was Fredricks and went to push him aside.

Green eyes with a determined edge took the agent by surprised. Her hand was wrapped around his tight fist slick with blood and drool. If the agent's face was anything to judge from, she had a feeling Mikel's hands looked much the same way. There was a cut beside his left eye, and his lip was split. Blood trickled from his nose and down his chin.

The unbridled fire in Brock's eyes briefly extinguished as he stared into those jade orbs. Even his fist subtly relaxed under her grip.

Syra looked at her husband taunting his adversary with a taunting smirk. She scoffed. "You two are pathetic. You're left alone without adult supervision for five minutes, and the first thing you two do is beat the shit out of each other!" Brock jerked his fist out of the callous but gentle hand. "At least no one tried to shoot the other."

Jensen chuckled. "That can be arranged."

" _No!_ " Syra grabbed his hand away from his pistol. She took hold of the bloodied collar of his grey shirt and drug him inside the building. Whispers filled her ears and could only imagine the storm of rumors that would come from this. Not giving a damn, Syra ushered the man into the men's restroom to wash off his face. She examined his facial injuries looking much like Agent Rumlow's and shook her head. "What am I going to do with you?" she stated under her breath.

Fredricks scrambled outside to find Brock wiping the blood off his lower face with the bottom of his black shirt. " _What were you thinking?!_ "

Brock spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva. "That son of a bitch killed six of our own! And probably more that I don't know of! You honestly think I'm just going to let that slide by? Forgive and forget? Fuck that shit!"

"That was eight years ago! Let it go! It pissed me off too, but I'm not making a big deal about it!" Fredricks ran a hand over his face. "Hopefully this doesn't get out to Director Fury. You're already in hot water with him. This will only make things worse." He shook his head, next, and gestured the other man towards the hill that separated the academy from the firing range. "Go. Get out of here. Should Davis hear about this from a student or even Jensen I'll explain things. I know Davis will have your back. He always does for those like us. Now get!"

Brock aimed a finger at Fredricks' face. "You tell that mother fucker to watch his back. I'm not finished with him." The agent spun around and briskly strode to this truck. He unlocked it and got in, surprised he didn't break the glass when he slammed the door shut.

* * *

The moment Brock stepped into his hotel room, he peeled the blood-stained shirt off his body and tossed it in the trashcan by the bed. Bruising was already starting to form around his eye and along his side where Jensen landed a lucky shot. Brock fished his phone out of his pants pocket and placed a call to his fellow STRIKE team member, Rollins.

In three rings, the call was answered. "Boss….Something going on?"

"Yeah, your ass getting down here Friday."

Rollins was heard muffling a laugh. "Day camp that bad?"

Brock rolled his eyes. "Shut the fuck up, Rollins, and just get your ass down here. Come Friday afternoon, I'm finally done with this nursery. It's time to shed the smell of baby powder and wet wipes for strippers and booze. You in?" An answer didn't immediately come. "Jack? You in?"

"Sure. I'll be there."

"Good. Spread word to the others. The more, the merrier." Brock hung up the phone and set it aside on the bathroom's vanity. Now, time that hot shower.

* * *

Tuesday…Brock eagerly awaited hand to hand combat. Yet again, he called on Novak for a demonstration on proper defense. She managed to deflect most of his punches, albeit them being more of a tap compared to what a normal punch would be. Just when he thought she had potential to be a decent sparring partner, one blow to the head rendered her unconscious. He stared down at her motionless form. He didn't think he hit her that hard. Oops.

Brock turned to face the rest of the class. "This right here is a good example of bad defenses."

Ten minutes before class was dismissed, Syra sat on the gym bleachers. She cradled the sore part of her head against an ice pack and frowned. Brock arrogantly went over to her and sat down beside her.

Syra gave him a glare from the corner of her eye and groaned. "Come to gloat?"

Brock cocked a sideways grin. "How's your noggin?" Noggin? _Noggin?!_ What the fuck? What was he, twelve? Who the hell used _noggin?_

"I'm fine." If Syra's tone of voice could be any colder, it'd have given Brock frostbite.

"Look at it this way, at least you and Jensen have matching bruises, now!"

"Fuck you!" Syra threw the ice pack at the agent and quickly got to her feet. Bad idea. Stars flooded her vision as she became light-headed.

Brock saw her balance falter and pulled her back down on the bleacher. "Whoa, there, Huggies. Take it easy. I advise you not make any sudden movement, or you'll end up a floor warmer again."

When class was dismissed, Brock helped escort the woozy cadet to her last course of the day. She didn't even make it twenty minutes in before she fell asleep. Brock was going to let her sleep, but Agent Moseph refused. Syra was harshly woken up by Moseph slamming a thick textbook down on the desk right next to her head.

The sudden explosion of sound snapped Syra awake in utter alarm. She screamed in terror and fell backward in her chair to the floor. Brock was at her side before his brain could register what he was doing and hoping to calm the hysterical young woman. He wondered what it would take to set this beautiful broken off. Now he knew.

Syra blindly swung her fists at the dark form hovering over her. Icy blue eyes painted black over a lower face mask stared back. A cold metal hand reached out to her and took hold of her hand. She was trapped. She was at the mercy of the Winter Soldier. Her fist struck her attacker somewhere in the face that left him dazed.

Brock's eyes involuntarily watered up. The sharp stabbing pain that ripped through his face from his already busted lip hurt more the second time around. He snapped his mind back to the moment. He took hold of the woman's hands and subdued her enough to get her outside the classroom without too much struggle.

Brock gave the instructor an angered scowl and let the door slam closed behind him. Syra struggled within the man's clutches, but he was much stronger than her. "Cadet Novak, I need you to calm down. Listen to my voice." Her eyes were squeezed shut as she bawled uncontrollably. He cupped her face in his hands, knowing he was leaving himself exposed to another wild attack, and continued. "Open your eyes, Novak. It's just me." Over and over he encouraged the young man to calm down. It took some time and patience on Brock's part to finally reel the cadet in.

Syra locked onto concerned brown eyes and gasped. She had had plenty of PTSD attacks in the past to know when she was coming off one. The young woman stammered for words worthy of an apology. "I-I am s-so sorry, Agent Rumlow!" She saw his busted lip and choked another sob. "Oh my G-"

"It's okay. It's okay. I'm not mad. Just…worried. You threw quite the fit back there." Brock could see her body shuddering and feel her racing pulse under his hands. His touch was tender in his combing stray hair from her face and caressing her cheek.

Syra broke down in another spasm of sobs and leaned against the agent for support. Her tears dampened the shoulder of his shirt, and her heartbeat pounded against his chest. For what felt like an eternity, the agent comforted the cadet. He felt so damned out of character. Yet again, this wasn't like him. But this woman…this parasite…her sway over him was becoming stronger, and he was letting it.

Brock cradled the back of her head and breathed in her vanilla sugar body lotion laced scent. His hands trailed up her back and then down again, feeling how sculped the smaller body against him was. He imagined what it would be like to feel her bare skin against his; to hear her whimper in pleasure and not psychological pain. No. He shouldn't be thinking like this, at least here anyway.

Strong hands took hold of slender shoulders and pushed her away from him. Embarrassed fluster filled the young woman's cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Those eyes. How they tugged at the man's insides. "You're okay. C'mon, let's get you out of here."

"But, my class… I-"

Brock cut the cadet off before she could continue. "I'll cover for you. And I know Agent Davis will too when he hears what I have to tell him." He brought a hand to her lower back and ushered her down the corridor and towards the two sets of double glass doors. Outside they strode and to her tan Toyota truck. She unlocked the driver's side and got in. "You're not going to try driving home are you?"

Syra shook her head. "No. I'm just going to sit here for and calm down. However long that takes."

"Okay. I'm going to go talk with Agent Davis. You going to be okay by yourself out here?" Syra nodded. Brock walked back towards the academy, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure the young woman was true to her word.

So far so good. He went back inside the building and straight to Davis's office. He ignored the academy director's secretary advising he make an appointment and went straight into the office. Davis was on the phone, which was hung up the moment Brock walked through the door.

The STRIKE agent slammed his hands down on the desk, rattling a pen cup, and snarled. "We need to talk."


	8. Damn Parasite

**7 – Damn Parasite**

Back out into the sunshine filled day, Brock strode, and to the tan Toyota truck, he was relieved to see unmoved in the parking lot. The closer he got to the truck, the better he was able to see the windows rolled down and its passenger laid back in the driver's seat asleep. He leaned against the door and stared down at the peaceful form. He reached out ever so lightly to caress her cheek and across her jaw. He wasn't expecting her to be asleep and was torn on whether or not he should leave her here to go back to his hotel room.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned under his breath.

* * *

By later in the afternoon, classes were dismissed for the day. Cadets went to their vehicles and drove off. Little bit by little bit the parking lot emptied, leaving only Brock's truck at one end of the parking lot and Novak's at the other. The academy faculty had their parking lot, which was good.

Brock was sure his being seen sitting on the lowered tailgate of a cadet's truck wouldn't look very professional. As four-fifteen rolled around, Syra started to wake up.

Her eyes fluttered open to see it was late in the afternoon and the parking lot almost barren of vehicles. Panic flooded her, and she shot upright. "Shit! _Shit_!" She popped her seat back in its upright position and fumbled with her keys.

From where Brock sat, he could hear the verbal tangent from the young woman. "You okay in there, Huggies?"

Syra froze, her hand wrapped around the keys in the ignition. Her focus darted to the rearview mirror to see the owner of the voice sitting on the tailgate of her truck and glancing back. Their eyes locked.

Just as Brock got off the tailgate, Syra got out of the truck. "What are you still doing here?"

Brock gave a good head to toe examination of the cadet. Her legs weren't as unsteady as before, and her color looked more normal. "I wanted to make sure you were okay before I left." He watched her cheeks turn pink with blush. "You okay enough to drive? Need a lift back to your place?"

Syra fervently shook her head. "Nope!" The suddenness of her response took the agent by surprise. "I mean…no, sir. I'm-"

"Don't call me sir. That shit pisses me off."

The young woman arched a brow in confusion. Cadets had to call him sir, and he didn't seem to mind it. If anything, he seemed to relish in it. So why was he so adamant about her not calling him sir? She thought back on his past actions towards her versus the other cadets. Where he had been demeaning towards them, he was lenient on her. Was it because of her psychological handicap? Then the realization hit her like a ton of bricks. The way he looked at her on occasion…how he comforted her in the hallway with a surprisingly gentle touch…and most of all, when he watched her during lunch. While it was a bit unnerving to be stared at like some attraction in a zoo, and she often wondered why, now it all made sense. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered by his taking to her or uncomfortable with it.

Syra bit her lips together and took a slow step backward to her truck. "I need to get going. My hus-" Syra stopped herself before saying anything else.

Brock cut his brown eyes down on jade green ones. He thought on the little bit of words he just heard. It sounded to him like she was about to say husband. Wait…she was married? He planted his hands on his hips in a flare of jealousy and cocked his head to the side.

Syra continued. "Mikel is probably wondering where I am."

Go fucking figure. She was married to Mikel Jensen. That mother fucker. Well, this just put a big ass kink in the plans of trying to recruit her into HYDRA's ranks. The fact it was HYDRA who broke her mind was already a significant hurdle to overcome. How could she be recruited into them when she knew damn well it was them who sent the Winter Soldier to off her family? Now came this latest bit of news. Jensen was about as pro-SHIELD as they got. There was no question he had pushed his ideals and beliefs onto the gullible young woman. Should HYDRA try to worm their way into her trust and change her mindset, Jensen would definitely find out. He already killed six operatives. What's to say he wouldn't kill more? Maybe HYDRA could off him before it came to that. But what if Syra found out her dear husband was killed by the same people trying to recruit her? That would only make things worse.

Brock decided to play off the cadet's near slip of the tongue. "Why would he wonder where you are?"

Fluster further deepened the young woman's cheeks, ears, and neck. "He not only instructs me in sniper training but also hand to hand combat. We train every other day in that and sniper stuff the other days."

Brock knew it; she was privately taught. It surprised him, though, that she wasn't much better in her skills. Perhaps her PTSD had something to do with that and Jensen was taking his time training her to help her adjust to it. Just because he didn't know much about Novak -er, Cadet Jensen's- personal life didn't mean he couldn't figure things out with the information he knew.

Despite the extreme urge churning in Brock to rat out the two peoples' secret marriage to bring down Jensen, he refrained. Why bring down Novak - _damn it, Cadet Jensen_ \- and ruin her career before it even got started just to spite one person? Oh, but he wanted to sooo bad. He was sure a meeting with the right high ranking HYDRA official would grant the cadet a pardon, and she be allowed to continue her training.

Brock nodded in forced acceptance of the answer. "Okay. I advise you take it easy, though. You've already had a hell of a day, what with that knot on your head and your little episode in Moseph's class."

Syra was becoming further bothered by the kindness of the agent and worried if he would try anything forceful on her. "Right." As she back peddled, she closed in on the driver's side door and quickly retreated inside.

Brock stood aside and watched the young woman leave the parking lot at a speed that most definitely would've earned her a driving demerit with the academy. A part of him wondered if it was because she was afraid of him. He saw a flicker of fear flash in her eyes before her speeding off. Was it something he said? Or maybe something she almost said? Brock started devising a series of scenarios and their possible outcomes in his head. Some of those were how to win the cadet's trust further while others were how to take out Jensen without it coming back on HYDRA. Whatever the outcomes would be, he had a year and a half to work out the details before the cadet graduated. He wanted to make sure she got assigned to a pro-HYDRA supervising official with a silver tongue to help get her into their ranks. While he wouldn't mind looking at that nice ass of hers on a daily basis, he absolutely would not allow some newbie into his STRIKE team. Who could be a good enough supervising official candidate?

Brock strode across the parking lot to his truck as he thought.

* * *

Another Wednesday. Brock kept his eyes open for his favorite cadet but never saw her. Come to find out, she was allowed an absence following Tuesday afternoon's fit. Davis felt it best the young woman take a day to rest. This just put Brock in a lousy mood for the remainder of the day. During lunchtime, he kept staring distantly at the unoccupied tree where Syra sat. That afternoon during the rest of the classes he was unjustifiably harsh and verbally brutal to the cadets at the firing range. More cadets were brought to tears in those two class periods than he made cry the week prior. It was even enough to make Fredricks concerned.

Another Thursday. Almost done. Just today and tomorrow and _done_! The weekend was right around the corner and Brock couldn't wait. A few of his STRIKE boys were coming down to join him in his celebrating his freedom from the academy Friday and Saturday night. It was sure to be a fucked-up weekend. Strippers…booze…all night partying… What could go wrong? He hoped he could talk some of the dancers into coming back to the hotel room. That is if the girls weren't stuck up cock teasing prudes like more were than weren't.

Then he saw her; Syra Novak - _fuck, Jensen!_ He noticed other cadets avoid her as they passed her in the hallway. Some would give her questionable backward glances while others would whisper and point in her wake. She was aware of this, and it obviously bothered her. He motioned her to join him off to the side near a large window.

Brock spoke loud enough for the offending cadets nearby to hear. "Don't let them get to you. Fuck 'em. They don't know what it's like having to live with what you've seen…what you've experienced. Because their lives are so damn perfect, right? Like they're ones to judge you." The whole time he spoke, her eyes were downcast or looking out the window. "It's the ones like you that come out the strongest in the end. You might not think it, but eventually, you'll become accustomed the pain. It'll make your stronger…more resilient against it later on down the road. And when that happens, you'll be unstoppable." Syra looked up at the agent with a small shimmer of home. "So keep your head up. Keep your eyes forward. You're a survivor, and that already makes you shit tons stronger than those mother fuckers talking shit. When you walk past them, don't look away in shame. You have nothing to be ashamed of! You stare them straight in the eye; you got that?"

Syra nodded and inhaled a deep breath. After taking a few moments to compose herself, she walked away. She tried to do as Agent Rumlow told her, to stare the others in the eye, but people laughing at her only brought her back down.

* * *

Friday. The very last day to be stuck in this shithole. One-thirty in the afternoon, Brock's phone vibrating in his pocket had him digging it out. It was a message from Rollins. He and one other from the team, Clark, had just landed. They were on their way to the hotel that he stayed at. Tonight was going to be a good night, indeed! Brock bit back his excited smile and continued to listen to the Foreign Languages instructor, Agent James Tullos, teach his lesson. At least this instructor was another HYDRA operative. As relieving as that was, the fact the instructor kept kissing ass to Brock was annoying.

By the end of the day, Brock was in the parking lot and looking for that little tan Toyota truck. He made it an attempt in the mornings to locate where she parked and while he had done that that morning, the truck was nowhere to be seen. "Damn. So much for that."

The firing range was tomorrow. She was always at the range on Saturdays for pistol practice. That's it! He'd say his farewells to her tomorrow. Damn that parasite! If only his right state of mind self could see him now. He'd kick his own ass! Hell, if Rollins and Clark saw him right now, they'd kick his ass for him! But they weren't here. Brock set the alarm on his phone to try and wake up around twelve-thirty tomorrow afternoon so he could be at the range by one. Keyword try. He might not be sober, but he'd still try.

* * *

Brock arrived at the hotel and rushed to the rooms he had reserved for his two best men. Unfortunately, they were two rooms down from his. Could be worse. He could hear Rollins and Clark talking inside the room and banged on the door. Silence.

The door unlocked and cracked open. A tall black man built like a brick wall answered the door. Brock stood there, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. Rollins was heard asking in the background, "Who is it?"

The black man, Clark, answered. "Room service."

Brock laughed out loud. "Oh really? Do I look like room service, mother fucker?"

Clark opened the door and allowed the team leader inside. Rollins was lounged out on the bed and flipping through channels on the TV. Sitting on the nightstand next to him was a bottle of whiskey and shot glass. Brock didn't ask as he made a shot for himself and downed it in one gulp.

Rollins waved a hand in front of his face. "What is that God-awful smell?"

Clark chuckled. "I know, right? If being castrated had a smell, that'd be it!"

Brock gave both men a middle finger in the air. "Which is why I'm ready to get showered and say to hell with the past two weeks! In two hours, I expect to have a hot bitch's tits in my face and her ass in my lap!"

"Hell yeah!" cheered Clark.

Rollins selected a channel featuring a wrestling match. "Just waiting on you, boss."

In twenty minutes' time, Brock was showered, dressed and ready to go. Just like his teammates, he had his pistol tucked away out of sight. No way was he going out unarmed. Since it was still a bit early and time permitted, the three decided on dinner at a steak house up the road from one of several strip clubs in the area.

It bothered Brock how he thought he kept seeing a particular green-eyed brunette amongst the crowd of people at the steakhouse. A second glance showed it was a different brunette. Thinking about it, he wasn't so sure he wanted to leave the academy just yet. Leaving meant no more picking on Cadet Jensen. No more calling her Huggies in front of her classmates…making her subject of his demonstrations during hand to hand combat…hearing her snippy comebacks to his jabs…watching her during lunch…seeing her smile…those eyes… _fucking parasite!_

Brock forcefully stabbed a piece of steak and shoved it into his mouth.


	9. The Crescendo

**8 – The Crescendo**

Continuous ringing of a cellphone stirred Brock from a heavy sleep. Who the fuck was calling so damned early in the morning? And why were they calling? Brock grumbled in physical agony. His head felt as though about to split open and his stomach burning from his excessive drinking the night before. He tried to roll over to reach for his phone but was stopped. Something was weighing down his arm. Thinking about it, his whole left arm and down to his hand was numb. The fuck was this?

His groggy eyes looked to the source of the weight to see a young Latino woman. Brock furrowed his brow and blinked a few times to make sure he saw what he was. Then he remembered. It was one of the strippers from last night. What was her name again? Who cares? She was just a convenient piece of ass, anyway. Without a care or concern for the sleeping woman, Brock shook his arm out from under her head full of messy black hair and sat up. He wasn't even in his hotel room! Judging by the pink girly froo froo shit hanging off the walls and around her vanity mirror, this had to be the dancer's apartment. House? Brock couldn't remember anything from the night before. This is why he didn't drink tequila and judging by the present company, she had most likely talked him into taking shots of it.

His phone was still ringing. No, not ringing. It was his alarm! The academy firing range!

A soft hand traced down his back followed by an even softer voice. "Something wrong, Big B?"

Brock's expression instantly turned to wordless surprise. Big B? Was he that shit faced last night? He needed to get out of here. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and his pants off the floor. "I need to take this call." It was a good enough excuse at an opportune moment so why not use it? To keep up the ruse, he pretended to answer his phone. "Yeah?" and quickly left the room. Brock continued talking to himself as though in a phone call as he slid his pants on. "I'll be there in ten."

In record time, he was dressed entirely in what only worsened his headache. His clothes reeked of alcohol, cigarette smoke, cheap cigars and drugstore perfume. Behind him stood the Latino dancer wearing a button down shirt and what he presumed was nothing else underneath. She twirled a strand of her messy hair between her fingers. "Will you be at the club again, tonight?"

Brock studied those long dark legs and instantly remembered why he spent the night with her. He got his keys out of his pants and shrugged. "Depends on work." He opened the apartment door and strode out into the overcast afternoon only to find his truck nowhere to be seen in the parking lot.

The dancer called out from inside her apartment. "You left your truck at the club."

"Where the fuck is that?"

The dancer sauntered to Brock and smiled at him teasingly. "Two blocks down the road. It's only a few minutes' walk." She kissed the man on the cheek and went back into the apartment, closing the door.

"Great."

* * *

Tires of a black truck came to a screeching halt in the parking lot of the hotel Brock had been staying at. No time was wasted rushing to the room and damn near ripping off the foul-smelling clothes. A quarter of a bottle of body wash later, Brock was sure he had washed all smells of last night off of him. He dried off, got dressed, combed his hair and was about to shave when a knock came at his room's door.

The door was opened to reveal Clark. The brick wall of an agent started chuckling at his team leader. "How's it going Big B?" Brock rolling his eyes and grumbling only made Clark laugh louder.

"Don't give me that shit, man." The door was left open for the other to enter, Clark doing so.

Clark gave his boss a head to toe look over to notice him dressed nicer than usual. He was wearing a blue and white striped button-down over a white tank top. "You're cleaning up nice. Going somewhere?" Further watching showed he was trying to be quick in finishing getting ready. "In a hurry?"

"Don't worry about it."

Clark smiled slyly. "Going out for the day with Dulce?"

Brock paused in his shaving to stare at the agent. " _Who_?"

That only made Clark laugh wildly. "You mean forgot her name? That hot little Mamacita who couldn't keep her hands off you last night?"

"Oh…her." The STRIKE team leader finished his task, rinsed out his razor and sat it beside the sink. "Definitely not going out for the day with her."

"Someone else, then?" No response immediately came. "Did you meet someone at the academy?"

Brock dried off his face and scoffed. He collected his wallet, phone and truck keys and stashed them away in his pants pockets. When he stashed his SIG-Sauer in the back of his pants under his shirt and picked up his two spare magazines, Clark arched a brow. "I'll be back in a little while."

Brock left his room and returned to his truck. The first thing he did when he got in was roll down the windows to try and vent out the lingering stench of stripper perfume. Apparently, the smells of his dirty clothes rubbed off onto the upholstery driving back to the hotel. So much for taking a shower. Hopefully, Cadet Jensen wouldn't smell the perfume on him since they were going to be outside.

After a pit stop for some coffee, Brock was on his way to the academy. Wishful thinking kept flooding his mind on all the ways he'd like to say farewell to the brunette. In the backseat of his truck…pinned against a wall in his hotel room…in the shower…but his favorite idea was her on her hands and knees taking it from behind as he pulled her hair. He just didn't want to fuck her; he wanted to dominate her. Such a small girl like Syra Jensen would be easy to pick up and even hold down. He even wondered how flexible she was. Was she one of those types he could fold in half and nail to the mattress? Brock noticed his pants were starting to fit a bit snuggly somewhere and adjusted himself. He knew he should be ashamed of himself for thinking such thoughts, but who the hell was going to know if he didn't tell anyone? He already knew Fredricks had him figured out. Possibly Davis, too. Oh well. What were they going to do to him?

Brock's mind was so consumed with his thoughts that he didn't realize he was already at the academy until he turned onto its drive. He had driven this route so much it had become a thoughtless habit. Around the main complex he drove and to the beige brick building's parking lot he went.

Aside from Fredrick's Acura parked in its usual spot, there was another vehicle; a black Buell motorcycle. No doubt it belonged to that bastard Mikel Jensen. "Son of a bitch," groaned Brock. Any and all excitement swelling in his pants went dead. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about hiding his boner. "Mother fucker…" Brock got out of his truck and stormed around the building to the firing range lanes.

Fredricks was happily blasting away a target with his pistol while Syra was at the far end and positioned behind her sniper rifle. Jensen stood beside her with his AS50 slung over a shoulder. Everyone stopped what they were doing when they saw the STRIKE agent walk up.

The look on Fredricks' face was a mix of pleasantly surprised and shocked. "Wha…what are you doing back? I figured you gone for good!" Fredricks laughed and shook the agent's hand.

Brock had to come up with a damn good reason for being here since Jensen was present. "I figured I'd blow off a few more rounds before flying out tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh. And…them?" Fredricks pointed over Brock's shoulder.

Brock turned around to see Rollins and Clark walk up. "What the fuck is this?"

Clark shook his head. "Man, I was right on your ass the moment you left the coffee shop, and you didn't notice. Usually, you're suspicious of everyone following you and the one time someone was, you're completely oblivious."

Rollins locked gazes with Jensen and clenched his jaw in anger. Brock tapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, killer, stand down."

Jensen refocused his attention on his instructing Syra. "Continue firing. Same target order. Forty-five seconds."

Syra nodded to oblige. "Yes, sir." She repositioned herself and carefully rested her finger alongside her rifle.

"Go."

The safety was flipped off, and the young woman did as instructed. Clark observed the cadet and looked to his boss. He subtly nodded with that scheming glint in his eye. Rollins leaned in closer to the team lead and asked, "Who's the kid?"

Clark asked his question next. "Robbing the cradle, now?"

Brock thrust an elbow backward into Clark's gut. "Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up."

Fredricks ejected his pistol's empty magazine and gestured to the building's door. "Help yourself to what's available on the table, inside, m'boys!"

Brock smirked. "Let's go, STRIKE. Let's show this fossil how it's done."

* * *

Target after target was left in shreds. The old ones were discarded, and new ones tacked on their respected target mounts. The three STRIKE agents were absolutely stunning in their accurate shooting skills. So much that Syra had allowed herself to become distracted. Even Jensen gave them a passing glance once in a while. He'd nudge the young woman in the leg to urge her to stay focused on her training.

After her last series of rounds were fired, she got up to take a break. She took a hefty drink from her water bottle when she heard the field agents' phones simultaneously go off. The three men paused in their having fun to check their phones. Seeing how all three of theirs went off at the same time, they knew something was going on.

Fredricks looked to the three men with concern. "Something wrong?"

Brock nodded and answered. "Yeah, code three. All available agents are needed for a hostile emergency situation downtown. So far three reported civilian casualties and several suspected more. Two law enforcement officials are down, too. Enemy snipers are on the spot taking out anyone who tries to infiltrate the building where the hostages are held." Brock looked at Jensen with a bit of reluctance. While this man wasn't one of his favorites, he was still a damn good shot and since most of his STRIKE team was in Washington, D.C. he needed all the best hands he could get for an improvised team. "You were once one of SHIELD's best. I could use that today."

Jensen cocked a sneer. "Well now that I have your permission," was given in curt reply.

Syra leaped to her feet. "I'm going too."

Brock, Fredricks and Jensen quickly barked, _"NO!"_

Jensen moved the young woman off to the side. "Absolutely not. You're a cadet…not a field agent."

Syra was offended. "I'm a good shot, and you know it! I can do this!"

Brock shook his head. "Nah ah, not with your PTSD. I need people I know can hold up to the stress. Not break under pressure because the boogieman left them fucked up in the head."

"Fuck you!" Syra yelled. She helplessly stood by and watched the men gather boxes of ammunition for their firearms.

Brock strode past the woman with hands full of pistol and rifle ammo. He could see how upset the woman was. "You really want to help?" Syra wiped her eyes and nodded. "Ride with me. You can help load up the magazines." Rollins and Clark exchanged confused expressions behind him but didn't question the order. "STRIKE, with me!"

They went to the black truck, and just as Clark was about to get in the front seat, Brock glared angrily at him. The agent got the point when he saw the cadet.

Jensen saw her, too, and grabbed her by the arm to stop her from getting in the truck. "Where do you think you're going?"

Brock started his truck and yelled out in an answer. "She's going to help my team prep." Bold chocolate brown eyes squared down on lighter brown ones. "Don't worry, Jensen; I won't let anything happen to her."

The veteran sniper wasn't comforted as the woman slipped from his grasp to get in the truck's front seat. Brock backed up and tires squealed as he drove away from the academy. He looked in his rear-view mirror to see the black Buell motorcycle right behind him followed by a red Acura. He really couldn't say he was surprised to see Fredricks invited himself.

Brock fought his pistol out from behind him and handed it to the cadet. "Take care of this."

Rollins stopped filling a clip to his pistol to stare bewilderingly at his boss and then the young woman. Everyone on the STRIKE team knew _no one_ touched Agent Rumlow's baby.

Syra made sure it was on safe, first, then ejected the magazine and cleared the round from the chamber. Her nimble fingers slid new rounds into the clip until it was full. Once the firearm was prepped and ready for use, she handed it back to its owner. Brock handed her his two spare magazines for her to reload, too.

The STRIKE team leader kept his eyes on the road as he spoke to the woman. "When we get there, you will keep your ass in this truck at all times. Got it?" She gawked at him from the corner of her eye. "You're not even supposed to be here. Fredricks, Jensen and even I could get in some serious shit if someone important knew you were here."

"What, you don't trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust, Cadet. It's a matter of who's qualified and who isn't. You haven't even graduated the academy yet. That makes you unqualified." Brock arrived at a blocked off intersection. Flashing his SHIELD badge to a police officer granted him access to the restricted part of the street a block away from the hostage area. He aimed a finger at the disgruntled young woman and barked, "Stay." She gave him a middle finger. "Maybe later if you're a good girl." He slammed the truck door, leaving a jaw dropped Syra in the front seat.

A moment later, Jensen pulled up on the sidewalk next to the truck. He rushed to Fredricks parking behind the truck and got his rifle case out of the back seat. Without saying a word, both men joined the STRIKE agents and disappeared around the corner.

Syra greatly feared for her husband's safety. She wanted to yell at him to be careful but knew he already would. A gut-wrenching feeling told her today was going to be the third worst day of her life.


	10. Agent Down

**9 – Agent Down**

The on-site command post was chaotic. Uniformed city personnel and SHIELD agents alike were doing their best to get the situation under control. Amongst the other crisis response vehicles, a SHIELD emergency truck was even present. No surprise. All SHIELD facilities, even academies, had a response team in case a situation arose for it. It had its back doors opened and an armed agent issuing weapons from the many available inside. Mounted on the walls were gun racks with assault rifles, taser rods, and pistols. Underneath the firearms in their appropriate shelves were various types of ammunition. On a section of the racks were wall scaling and repelling equipment. Below that series of stands was a heavy duty black trunk containing protective vests.

As soon as Brock and the four others accompanying him arrived, they were approached by the city's police commissioner and Agent Davis.

Davis proceeded to explain. "Commissioner Clements, these men are the best you can ask for." He motioned at the three forward most field agents. "They're a part of an elite tactical emergency response team called STRIKE. These two gentlemen," he then pointed to Fredricks and Jensen, "are two of the best damn snipers I've ever known. I can assure you, sir, with these agents leading the charge, this whole fiasco will be over by sundown."

Clements nodded in approval. "Excellent! That's what I want to hear! I'm relieved to have such esteemed on our side. Just tell me what you need, and I'll see to it you get it."

Brock spoke first. "I'll need a layout of the streets and buildings surrounding the hostage area."

As the five people prepared, Davis and Clements filled them in on everything they needed to know. A rogue mercenary group comprising of people from all over the world led by a Turkish problem child was holding several civilians hostage. Amongst those civilians was a senator's daughter. Go figure. Brock signed to himself. So far everything was sounding like a scenario for a lousy cliché movie. This should at least be easy enough for his STRIKE team to handle. Clements laid a map of the street blocks and town square on the hood of the SHIELD truck for the agents to look at. Highlighted yellow at the top-right corner of the square was a sandwich shop, the building the hostages were kept in. Three other locations on the map were highlighted orange. Those were where snipers were suspected of being. One was north-north-east and across the street from the hostage location, another west and the last south south-east. All locations were vantage points capable of keeping an eye out on the streets and buildings leading to the target location. Brock studied the map and ran scenarios through his head on what plan would work out best for a minimum threat to hostages. He needed to act fast.

Clements continued. "There are hostile ground forces all around here." He circled the high threat area with a finger. "No telling how many there are. I've already tried to send in two of my teams with no luck. I lost two men from a surprise attack. I don't plan to lose anymore."

Surprise attack? This guy was a police commissioner. He should expect surprise attacks. Brock looked at Davis. "I'm going to need eyes on the streets."

The academy director smirked. "Already on it, Agent Rumlow. I had a tech use these babies right after the first infiltration attempt to assess the ground threat better." Davis walked over to an agency SUV where a young Asian woman sat in the opened up back-end with a series of three joined tablets in her hand. Sitting beside her was heavy duty black case. Sitting in four thick foam cut outs were four tiny, remote-controlled quad-copters. "Now, D.W.A.R.F.s aren't normally used for this purpose, but they do offer stealthy surveillance since they have a camera installed on them."

Davis nodded to the young woman. "Agent Ji, fire 'em up. Let's give STRIKE some eyes in the sky."

Agent Ji nodded. Brock watched the quad-copters light up and lift off. They scattered to the winds in opposite directions under the direction of Ji's nimble finger-work on her tablets. Time ticked slowly by. Ji speaking shattered the mind-numbing silence that had settled in amongst the group. "I'm coming up on the first assault site." More silence and quick hand work. "There are two hostiles at the south-east of the square in a parking garage. One on the bottom floor and another on the third."

Brock looked at Rollins. "You're in charge of Beta Team. Take two of the academy's response team agents and get suited up. You're going to take out the targets in the garage."

Rollins nodded and sprinted off towards the SHIELD emergency response truck. Ji continued piloting the quad-copters' every turn, through parking garages, inspecting vehicles, and anything a suspected hostile could hide in or under.

Another set of hostiles was discovered in the lobby of a bank's office building to the north-east of the square. "Clark," Brock barked.

Clark's head snapped upwards. "Sir?"

"You're leading Charlie Team. Take two agents with you and get what you need to infiltrate that building from the back. Ji, fly around that building for a possible back way in." The woman nodded and did as ordered. A single grey metal door with a keypad security lock was found near the side. No surprise a hostile was standing guard outside the door. "Take him out, Charlie Team, and secure the lobby."

Clark gave a sharp nod. "On it," and pointed to two academy assigned agents. "You two with me."

Brock anxiously crossed his arms over his chest and squared his eyes down on Ji. "Can you get a visual on the snipers' exact locations?"

Ji cocked her head to the side. "The higher up I go, the trickier it becomes piloting my D.W.A.R.F.s against the increasing winds."

Brock kept his stern and unblinking attention centered on Ji as he spoke to Fredricks and Jensen. "Keeps your eyes open, up there."

Jensen scoffed. "You just do what STRIKE does best and leave the snipers to Freddie and I. It's what we do best."

* * *

Syra checked the time on her sports watch. It was approaching four in the afternoon. She had been sitting in the truck all alone for the past thirty minutes and was restless. And what the hell was that smell? For a truck belonging to a Billy Badass of an agent, it sure smelled awfully girly. It was enough to give her a headache that was gradually getting worse with each breath inhalation.

Jade green eyes darted over to the ignition to see the keys not there. She hoped Agent Rumlow forget them in the excitement of the emergency. She wanted to roll down the windows for fresh air. Her attention then shot over to the passenger door handle. Opening the door was another option. It's not like she was going to disobey a direct order. She was going to stay inside the truck.

The moment she opened the door, the rush of nontoxic air filled her nostrils. Syra deeply inhaled the air and slowly exhaled it. The chatter of voices both near and far reminded the cadet of how dire the situation was. A plan was being devised to sneak a group of specialized agents into the hostile controlled area. Talk of two SHIELD agent snipers moving into position urged Syra to listen closer to the radio talk coming from a nearby agency can. Syra looked around at the many towering high-rise buildings in both paranoia and curiosity.

* * *

Brock and the others kept their heads down, and their footsteps light as they scurried from cover to cover, nearing closer to the hostile area. They stopped next to a building across the street from where Ji had located the first set of enemies in the parking garage. Brock nodded to Rollins. The order was understood, and Beta Team broke off to the west. Another nod, this time at Clark, had Charlie Team going in the opposite direction.

Brock stated to the two agents he assigned to him. "We hold here until Beta Team secures the garage."

Beta Team disappeared behind a building as they approached the back of the garage from an alley. Rollins glared at the two agents with him. Surely taking care of the ground level target was an easy enough task for non-STRIKE trained agents. "Clear the ground floor. I have third."

The two agents kept low and moved around to the side of the garage, using the concrete railing as cover. One kept their head up to watch for any threats from above while the other kept their focus forward. Rollins shouldered his SHIELD Steyr AUG in exchange for another item of choice. With the assistance of a small, agency modified crossbow and a specialized grappling hook arrowhead, Rollins was scaling the backside of the garage. When he reached the second level railing, he scanned the area to ensure it was safe to proceed upwards. Come the third level, he peered over the railing and used the Steyr AUG's specialized x-ray scope to scan through vehicles for any immediate threat. At his two-o-clock and thirty feet away was the threat. A van and two compact cars were between him his target.

One of the agents on Beta Team spoke. "Ground floor clear."

Rollins climbed over the rail and snaked between the van and car. One silenced shot from Rollins' rifle had his target on the ground, dead. "Garage clear."

Brock was proud of his teammate. There was never doubt in his capability to get the job done. The Alpha Team lead motioned for the two agents behind him to follow. "Move out. Charlie, status on the lobby?"

Clark stepped over the motionless body of the bank's office building's enemy guard and to the keypad. An agent on his team plugged in a tablet-like device to retrieve the number key encryption code. In several beeps, the tablet had the entry code. The code was entered, and Charlie Team rushed into the building.

Brock waited and once he heard the lobby was cleared, rushed forward to the next point.

* * *

So much radio silence. When something was said, it was breath stealing for Syra.

Agent Rumlow's voice came over the radio. "We're coming up on the building." More heart racing silence followed for several seconds after and before the agent continued. "I can see movement. Two hostile targets, both armed with assault rifles." Syra scooted closer to the edge of the seat to hear the chatter better. "I count six hostages on their knees."

A woman's voice answered. "Keep your head down, Agent. The local P.D. lost two men very near where your team is located to a hostile sniper."

Syra subconsciously brought a hand to her mouth in deepening worry. The anxiousness coursing through her had her on her feet and pacing the sidewalk between Agent Rumlow's truck and Mikel's motorcycle. It didn't even process to her she was breaking a direct order.

More radio chatter stopped her in her tracks. It was Mikel. "Got a visual on a sniper rifle in a window. South-south-west building from my position. No clear shot. It's aimed in your direction, Rumlow."

Agent Rumlow spoke. "Take the shot when you get a clear visual."

"Copy that." Fleeting excitement momentarily stole Syra's nervousness. If her husband could get a clear shot on that sniper, it was less dangerous for the STRIKE team. Syra desperately wanted to do more than just stand around and listen to what was going on. Seconds later, a shot was fired. Mikel came through the radio. "West sniper down."

Syra's knees almost buckled beneath her in relief. It was a momentary relief quickly stolen, though. Distant gunfire startled the young woman and she yelped.

* * *

From where Brock was hiding behind the corner of a building, he watched one of the hostages fall lifelessly to the ground through a large window of the sandwich shop. He growled in a whisper. "Hostage down!" Looming above them was one of the enemy targets. The sights of the agent's M4A1 rifle rested on the target's head, and his fingers snug against the trigger. All it would take was one pull of the trigger to effortlessly erase the bastard from existence. "I have a clear shot of a hostile."

"Hold your fire," filled Brock's earpiece from Davis. "Do you see the senator's daughter?"

"Negative." Brock looked across the small town square to see Beta Team. They were knelt down amongst a series of large concrete potted plants situated around the bottom of a medium-sized tree. "Beta team, do you have a visual on the girl?"

"Negative." One of the agents with Rollins poked his head ever so slightly above the plant he was tucked behind. Less than a second later, a sniper bullet to the head sent him to the ground. "Agent down!"

* * *

Syra was pulling at handfuls of her hair by now as she paced between Rumlow's truck and Fredricks' car. A third shot was fired followed by a fourth. The shots didn't come from the ground level. The high-rise buildings…the snipers. Who did they shoot now? Hopefully, it was Fredricks and Mikel saving the day by taking out the enemy snipers.

Fredricks' frantic voice came through SHIELD's van radio. "Agent down!" His breathing was labored. "Jensen's down…South sniper got him."

Syra's heart dropped to her feet, and her stomach lunged into her throat. Her body started to numb all over, and her head swirled about. Before she knew what she was doing, she was darting and weaving through the emergency response vehicles and agency cars littering the streets towards the high-rise she figured Mikel was positioned on the roof of according to ground personnel and radio chat. She knew he had to be north-north-east of the sniper's building. Into the parking garage she went and ran straight into a SHIELD agent standing watch outside the building's door. Mikel's vigorous training kicked in, and without blinking an eye, Syra had the taken off-guard agent disarmed and knocked out on the ground. Oh, she was going to be in loads of trouble for that! No time to waste thinking about it, though. She took his earpiece and ran the fastest she could into the building and to the elevator.


	11. Cadet Down

**10 – Cadet Down**

Hearing the words 'Jensen's down' was pure gold. In the town square, a malicious smile subconsciously changed Brock's expression from serious to content. Finally, that son of a bitch was ridden of! At this point, Brock was ready to call a truce with the hostiles and shake the hand of the sniper who killed Jensen. Now that that fucker was out of the way… wait. His little cadet of a wife. She'd be distraught. Well, guess it was up to him, Agent Brock Rumlow, to console the grief-stricken young woman. This just worked out to his advantage.

Her voice in his earpiece suddenly grounded him back to reality. _"Mikel?! Mikel, answer me!"_

Brock's eyes widened. "Cadet? What the hell are you doing?"

Syra ignored the agent ranting into her ear. The pounding of her uncontrollable heartbeat flooded in her ears. She could no longer distinguish voices other than the fact they weren't Mikel's. Therefore, they didn't matter. The young woman raced up the last flight of stairs to the roof's access door and barged outside. It was a hasty decision she immediately regretted. A bullet whizzed past her head and ricocheted off the wall behind her. She dropped to the ground and took cover behind a massive air-conditioning unit. Her panicked eyes searched what parts of the pebble ridden rooftop she could for her husband.

Brock heard the gunfire echo the buildings above his position. Judging from the gunfire he heard and that in the woman's earpiece sound far louder than it should have, she was no longer in his truck. "Cadet, what's your position? Your ass better still be in that truck!"

Tears streamed down Syra's cheeks and her breathing now choked sobs. "I'm on the roof of a building."

" _WHAT?!_ Fall back, Cadet! _Fall back!_ " Brock was the most furious he had been in a very long time.

Syra continued to search the rooftop. Another shot was fired as its bullet struck very near where she was. Then she saw him, her Mikel, weakly take cover behind a different air-conditioning unit. The front of his shirt was stained crimson from his blood. He had a hand pressed to his neck in a futile effort to stem the bleeding. He was losing blood fast, and they both knew it.

Syra screamed and cried at the same time. _"Nooo!"_

Brock couldn't stand idly any longer. With the sniper distracted by the cadet, now was the chance to proceed to the sandwich shop and take out the hostiles. Or so he thought. He kept his head low as he moved forward but was stopped when an agent assigned to his team was shot.

"Agent down! Agent down!" Brock fell back and looked to Rollins still huddled behind the large concrete flower pots. "Fredricks, do you have a visual on the sniper locking STRIKE down?"

Fredricks answered. "There's two; one north, one south. If the north bastard targeting your team would move just a hair forward, I can take him out. I'm at a bad angle for the south sniper targeting Novak."

Syra heard what Fredricks said. "Target the north sniper. I can give you only a second's distraction."

Just when Brock didn't think he could get any more enraged. "You stay where you are, Cadet!"

Syra swallowed her nerves. "Don't let me down, Freddie."

With that, she bolted from her cover and dove behind the neighboring air-conditioning unit. This put her a little bit closer to Mikel. She checked her body for any injury and found a bullet hole in her hoodie. How many rounds did this fucker have left? She gave a quick glance to Mikel's deathly pale form to see he was still alive, though barely, and looked around for his rifle. Shit. She couldn't find it, at least not from where she was.

Fredricks spoke. "One more time and I should get him!"

Syra nodded to herself and took off into another run. Because Mikel was behind the next unit over, she would have to keep running. She fell to the ground and slid to his position. A shot was fired, but not from the enemy sniper.

Fredricks cheered over the earpiece. "North sniper down!"

Syra breathed a sigh of relief and quickly collected her husband in her arms. "It's okay, baby. I'm here. You're going to be okay." She could see the horrific amounts of blood paint the gravely wounded agent and cried out. "Stay with me, damn it!" Syra pulled off her grim reaper hoodie and rolled it up to press onto the free bleeding wound.

Mikel's AS50 caught the corner of her eye. It was streaked with blood and laying on a bed of glistening red pebbles. Extreme conflictions started to tear at the woman's insides. She knew if she left Mikel's side he would most likely die, seeing how he was too weak to keep pressure applied to the wound. But, if she sat there and did nothing, then Fredricks and the STRIKE team were still targets to the south sniper. Then came the thought of the hostages.

Brock saw movement within the sandwich shop. A tall and heavy-set man was just visible through the decal lettering on the shop's window. At gunpoint in his clutches was the senator's daughter. "I've got a visual on the daughter!" Again, Brock tried to proceed closer to the sandwich shop only to be stopped by more sniper fire. This shot was meant to warn the agent and his teams rather than take a life. There was a sinister grin smeared on the man's face that taunted the agent. "Fredricks, get that south sniper down now! Charlie team, what's your position? Help Freddie! Get to that building and get that son a bitch sniper!"

"On it!" Clark answered.

Fredricks focused on the south building but saw nothing. "I have no visual on the south sniper. Too much cover on the roof."

Syra kissed Mikel's head and tenderly laid him down with the hoodie tied around his hand at his neck. Her mind was too panicked to think or remember her emergency field medical training. Her frantic footsteps in her running matched the speed of her heartbeat. Her bloody hands picked up the AS50 off the ground before she hunkered down behind the roof's perimeter wall. Many times in the past had she shot her husband rile. Enough that she had become just as familiar with it as she had her own. The young woman forced herself to think of her training and knowledge. Wind speed. Distance to target. Wait, what was the distance to the sniper's position? She gave a quick look over the perimeter wall. The distance was gauged, and she adjusted the rifle's sites accordingly.

She heard Fredricks' say, "Rumlow, coming up on your eight!"

Brock jerked around to see the hostile. Before he could take a shot, the enemy took cover behind a car.

Syra looked over the wall to see the armed hostile aiming a rifle at the STRIKE agent. "I've got a shot!" Not waiting for confirmation on the shot or not, she fired. Now she knew what brain matter splattering on a sidewalk looked like through a high-powered scope. Ew. Just fucking…ew. She tried not to throw up at the sight. "Your eight is good, Agent Rumlow."

Brock huffed a laugh to himself in disbelief. She did it. The kid actually did it. "Good shot, Huggies."

"Stop calling me-" but a gunshot interrupted the young woman.

Brock instantly looked at the sandwich shop. The tall and heavy-set man was still sneering with the senator's daughter at gunpoint. So where did the gunshot come from? Then Fredricks called over the earpiece. "C-cadet down. I…I repeat Cadet Novak down."

Something snapped inside Brock. "You son of a bitch!"

Brock didn't care what trouble he was about to get in going against a direct order. He charged forward with a clear shot of the hand of the daughter's captor holding her at gunpoint. One quick shot disarmed the man. The daughter dropped to her knees and tried to escape, but her captor's uninjured hand grabbed her by a handful of her hair. One quick jerk back sent her landing harshly to the floor. Brock shot the man's other hand, the round narrowly missing the woman's head. Two other hostiles accompanying the heavy-set man came to his aid with automatic rifles blazing. This allowed the enemy in charge a chance to escape. Rollins followed his team leader's course of action as both STRIKE agents fired at the hostiles. A third hostile came forward with a grenade launcher.

Brock yelled, _"Grenade!"_ The agents scattered as an explosion rocked the town square.

Sniper gunfire rained down on Rollins' position, a bullet striking him in the side of his vest. The shot was close enough to fray his protective vest's stitching, but not close enough to be life-threatening.

Fredricks saw a quick flash of movement from the south sniper and took a shot. He knew it wouldn't hit the target. If anything, he hoped it would be enough to scare the sniper into falling back so STRIKE could have a chance to recover on the ground. It worked.

Brock yelled into his earpiece, "Keep him cowering, Freddie. I'm moving in!" A frail voice amongst the chaos blowing up his earpiece was somehow heard above all else.

It was the cadet. "I'm repositioning…to…to get a better shot on the-" grunts and groans halted the woman. A sharp cry of pain was heard next followed by a whimper. "I can get the south sniper."

Hot tears full of rage and hate poured from the levees of Syra's eyes. It was the same rage and hate that flowed crimson out of the fresh gunshot wound in her left shoulder. She tightly gripped her shoulder to stop the bleeding, biting back her cries behind clenched teeth.

Rumlow kept a look out for any hostiles as Rollins helped the rescued hostages out of the building. "Hostages secured." The enemies were nowhere to be found in the building. There was, however, a hole in the storage room floor that led to the city sewage system underground. The primary target who had been holding the senator's daughter hostage had escaped. "The hostiles have escaped through a hole in the floor. They're in the sewers." His mind rushed back to Cadet Jensen and the building she was on. His worry stricken brown eyes desperately searched the building's ledge for any movement or a rifle. "Cadet, status?"

Syra kept a hand pressed onto her left shoulder. "It's just a flesh-wound." The young woman repositioned herself against the perimeter wall, though in excruciating pain, and tried to steady her aim for a shot at the south sniper. He wasn't where she remembered him being.

More gunfire came from the south sniper's rooftop. Syra just knew it was the sniper taking his kill shot at her when she saw Clark rush into her scope's view. His pistol was drawn, and he and his men were moving in on a location on the rooftop. "South sniper down!"

Syra choked out a sob and collapsed to her rooftop's peddled ground. It was over. Mikel! She had to get back to him. Momentarily forgetting her own wound, Syra returned to where the man lay. He wasn't moving and looked as though not breathing either. "Mikel?" The veteran sniper's groans were barely audible.

Brock was cursing to himself. Jensen wasn't dead? "What's Agent's Jensen's status?" By now, the STRIKE agent was in a frantic run to the high-rise with Rollins in close pursuit, catching up to him only because of his being delayed by the elevator. "Damn it, Cadet, _talk to me!"_

"He...He's been shot...in the neck." Blood soaked hands kept the balled-up hoodie tight against the life-threatening wound. "I'm losing him! _I'm losing him!_ "

The elevator doors opened, allowing Brock and Rollins inside. Keeping one hand on his rifle, Brock mashed on the twenty-sixth floor's button. "Come on, come on _GO!_ "

Syra cradled Mikel back against her chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her body was trembling in sobs. "Please, baby, please don't leave me," was sobbed over and over again. Her fingers combed through the wind matted locks of his hair, knowing it always relaxed him. "Please...please..."

Brock had witnessed many colleagues die in the field; some quick, others slow. Yet he was never affected by it. He'd just step over their bodies to continue the mission. But this was different. Perhaps it was hearing the young woman cry into his ear. Hearing and seeing a woman cry was nothing to him…until her. He had heard her cry before from an anxiety attack at the range and even from her PTSD fit throwing earlier in the week. Both times pulled at parts of Brock he thought too callous to register emotion. To hear her cry as she was now was the worst sound he could ever hear from her.

Her sobs continued to bore into him. "Baby, please...Don't leave me."

Gargling. Choking. Coughing. Then a Jensen's hoarse whisper spoke. "Stay...strong..." More gargling and choking. "I love...you," was the last thing heard.

Painful screams of a woman in love being torn into pieces filled everyone's earpieces. Brock yelled into his earpiece. "Where's that med chopper? It better be in route!"

Finally to the top floor the elevator arrived. Before the doors had opened all the way, Brock and Rollins were scaling the last flight of stairs leading to the rooftop. They rushed out of the door and around the corner to see the two bloodied snipers.

The sudden burst of movement had Syra quick to act. She unholstered Mikel's pistol and aimed it right on the team leader's form. Her bloody-faced glare beneath a lowered brow had the agent seeing the cadet in a different light. Rollins raised his rifle to aim at the armed and potentially dangerous cadet.

Brock waved for Rollins to lower his rifle, the agent hesitantly doing so. "Whoa there, Huggies. Lower your weapon." His light brown eyes took a quick glance at Jensen's blood-soaked and motionless form cradled against the young woman.

Syra's aim lowered, and the pistol slipped from her fingers to fall to the rooftop. The senior field agent ran to her position and knelt down to check the pulse of Jensen. Nothing. He was gone. The agent shook his lowered head and slammed a fist down on the ground. He flexed the tingling in his hand and clenched his jaw. When he looked up, he felt a pull on his humanity only the young woman could do. She was humming a sweet melody; a song he had heard on the radio a few times before. Syra was combing her fingers through her fallen lover's hair and down to his cheek in a caressing manner. She had her other arm wrapped around his shoulders, drawing him closer to her. All around where she sat was blood.

Brock noticed her unblinking stare was distant and aimed at the ground. "Hey," he whispered. "Syra…" Syra stopped humming, her caressing fingers pausing at her slain lover's temple. Her eyes darted upwards to meet the STRIKE agent's. Off in the distance, the rotor of a helicopter could be heard. "We need to get downstairs and back to the others for a full report."

The young woman didn't move, her arm around Jensen's shoulders tightening. She was not going to let him go. Brock's shoulders sank as he heaved a sigh. Looks like this was going to happen the hard way. She would have to release the body, whether she wanted to or not, as soon as the med team arrived. This would require the help of Rollins. He gave an over the shoulder examination to Rollins standing at his left.

Rollins nodded in understanding like he had been reading his team leader's mind.

The helicopter touched down shy of the group, the medical team unloading off the aircraft with a field stretcher. Rollins signaled to the medical team the injured was deceased.

Brock took a knee behind Syra and spoke into her ear. "We have to go now. He's gone, Sy. There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anybody can do."

Syra yelled in emotion fueled rage. Knowing it was the only way to cease the young woman in her struggles, Brock took hold of her injured shoulder and squeezed it. It was enough to momentarily incapacitate her, which was enough time for the medical team to load Jensen's body onto the field stretcher and carry him into the helicopter.

She tried to get to her feet, but the STRIKE agent had her restrained from behind. One arm was hooked across her chest, pinning her upper arms against her as his other arm wrapped around her waist.

She screamed and yelled, kicking and trashing in a hopeless attempt to get free. Tears blurred her vision until she couldn't make out any details of anything or anyone around her. Her knees buckled beneath the weight of her body. She was so consumed mourning the loss of her husband that she didn't notice the extent of her blood loss. She felt lightheaded, and everything spun out of control around her.

She could hear the agent behind her say, "I've got you, baby. I've got you," before her vision went black and she passed out.


	12. Love, Hate, and Dried Blood

**11 – Love, Hate, and Dried Blood**

A heart monitor's steady rhythmic beeping was all Brock had to let him know his little Huggies was still alive. Her breathing was shallow and her color dreadfully pale, even after a blood transfusion. He knew when she woke up, she was going to receive more bad news on top of knowing her husband was deceased. During the events of the hostage situation in downtown, it was quickly learned of her and her instructor's fraternization. Not just a fraternization, but secret and greatly unauthorized marriage. When Brock was questioned regarding his knowledge of the fraternization, he denied everything. He just didn't lie to protect the cadet, but more to protect himself. If he confessed to knowing the truth, he'd get more than a slap across the hands and a two-week long punishment of academy instructions and morale speeches. Bye-bye career. Maybe one of his HYDRA connections with power could pull the right strings to keep him in. It was that same connection he hoped could save the cadet's blossoming career. She saved his life, after all, and took a bullet because of.

He owed her one.

Brock held her frail hand in his and caressed the area around the IV with his thumb. She risked her life for him. The crazy, beautifully broken young woman saved him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her bruised knuckles. He recognized bruising like this. There was no question she received them when she knocked out the SHIELD agent standing guard in a parking garage. Brock smiled to himself. The incident was just one of many demerits against her that edged her closer to dishonorable agency discharge. Fraternization, disobeying a direct order by a senior field agent as well as assaulting a field agent was just the main no-nos.

Did no one stop to think of the good she did? She overcame a disability to do what was necessary. Aside from that, she put aside her personal affections for one to help save the lives of both SHIELD agents and civilians. Even after getting injured, something he knew would set off all sorts of PTSD issues, she was willing to do what was necessary. And she was only, what? Twenty years old? Fuck… thinking about it, he was robbing the cradle, wasn't he? Here he was in his mid-forties and pining over some girl barely in her twenties.

His face crashed to the bed in the realization of how horrible his predicament must look. "Ugh…I hate you so much right now," he groaned into the bedsheet.

"I hate you, too."

The breathless response had Brock's head jerking upright to see weary half-lidded eyes stare back at him. Something fluttered in his gut that made him feel like a little boy, again. What should he be bothered by the most? How much older he was than her? The fact he was still there? Or how he couldn't deny to himself how strongly he felt for her? He then became aware he still held her hand and slowly released it. He could only cross his fingers she didn't notice.

Brock cocked a half smile. "Welcome back. How do you feel?"

Syra licked her dry lips and swallowed. "Like shit."

"That's different from any other day, how?" The young woman didn't answer. She closed her eyes and deeply inhaled. "My condolences for your loss."

Syra scoffed. "Cut the shit, Agent Rumlow. You hated Mikel, and we both know it."

Brock leaned back in his chair. "Not everyone will get along on the worksite, no matter where that is. Regardless, he was damn good at what he did."

"Why are you still here, anyway?"

The agent scoffed. "I'm under investigation. My whole team is. As such, we're to remain in the area until the investigation is concluded, whether good or bad."

Syra struggled to keep her emotions in check. "You must've pissed off the wrong people somewhere."

"I usually do," Brock laughed. "The same people you pissed off, yourself." A labored sob escaped the woman. "You know you're in a shit ton of trouble, right?"

"What punishment am I looking at?"

"Punishment? Or _punishments_? There are multiple counts of fuck you working against your favor right now. The biggest one is fraternization…"

Syra wiped at the tears hanging on her eyelashes. "It wasn't just fraternizing. I loved him. The academy and higher-ups can do whatever they want to me. Expel me, whatever. I don't care." Her eyes hardened and lips pursed. "I don't regret falling in love with Mikel nor do I regret marrying him three months ago. A person can't control who they fall in love with. They can try to lie to themselves, but it's only a matter of time before they succumb to the inevitable."

Brock listened, concentrated eyes fixed on the woman. How the truth of the woman's words struck him. Someone knocking on the hospital room's door halted any other words the two were going to say. Brock got up and answered the door to see Fredricks. Standing behind him were Rollins and Clark. There was a smug grin on Fredricks' face, the STRIKE agent knowing it was because of Jensen's death. Toted in one of his hands was Jensen's AS50 rifle case.

The academy instructor straightened his expression. "How's the girl?"

"She's awake." Brock stood aside so Fredricks could enter the room. He gave a nod to his two team members to wait in the hallway.

Fredricks did so and cautiously. He waved his fingers at Syra and sat the rifle case down beside her. Syra reached out for the item with a trembling hand and solemnly accepted it. She tried to open it the best she could with no success. With some help from Brock, the case was opened and the rifle exposed. Portions of it were still caked in blood, which further fueled the emotional turmoil inside the young woman.

It pained Brock to see her so wrought with grief. Sure, presenting her her slain husband's rifle still caked in his blood was a dangerous move, but a move Brock thought the right push towards his carefully orchestrated plans. "I can see you're hurting, and not from that gunshot either." He pointed at her shoulder. "You want to find the son of a bitch that did this, don't you?" He studied the enraged young woman's slimming downgaze. "The man responsible for ordering the shot that killed Jensen is still out there. He got away from us." Still no change in the woman's demeanor. "I might know some people…some pretty powerful people…that can help you get your revenge." He thumped the stock of the AS50. "With you being the one to pull the trigger on the bastard that gave the kill order on your husband."

Syra's fists and jaw muscles clenched simultaneously. Her gaze forced off the bloody rifle and back to the STRIKE agent. A slight shift in visual observation showed Rollins and Clark standing in the hallway and watching through the room's large window. The young woman thought deeply on the words.

Her expression wrinkled in mild disgust and disapproval. Jade green eyes met light brown. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" No verbal answer was needed for the malicious glint in Brock's eye, and the smirk on his face spoke loudly enough. "Something tells me this wouldn't be a SHIELD-sanctioned mission."

Brock shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. It would be through someone else… a stronger organization. They can make it happen for you, Sy, and my men and I will be there to help."

She thought she knew what was being proposed. When he mentioned influential people, she wondered who, exactly, those people were. Perhaps it better she didn't know. All she could think of, at the moment, was the pain still bleeding out of her from the loss of Mikel. She closed her eyes as her lips pressed into a deep frown. Her body lightly trembled in rage with the overwhelming desire to have her revenge. The taste of bile rose to her throat, but she refused to be sick. She wanted revenge. She wanted to kill whatever big boss man it was that arranged the whole hostage situation that resulted in her husband's death.

When she opened her eyes, she looked at the STRIKE agent next to her. She growled in response. "Tell whoever it is you need to tell...I want that fucker dead."

Brock nodded in approval. "Consider it done." He studied the woman glaring up at him. She ran a weak hand along the rifle, not caring about the patches of dried blood painting the barrel and stock. "It's a good look for you," he stated with a grin and walked away. He joined Rollins and Clark in the hallway. "Now to pay Secretary Pierce a visit when I get back to D.C."

* * *

Come Wednesday and Syra was finally released from the hospital at eight in the morning. Thanks to Agent Rumlow, she had a clean set of clothes to change into. A black tank top, sweatpants and slip on shoes waited for her at the foot of her bed.

It completely took her by surprise to see Agent Davis the one picking her up. She nervously and awkwardly walked to his dark red Chrysler 300 parked under the patient pick-up overhang. Davis offered a hand in assistance as she got into the front seat.

Syra just knew this was going to be the talk of her academy dismissal and braced herself for it. Davis got in the front seat and started the engine. His sly smile and dark eyes held a novel's worth of secrets she dared not inquire about. "I'm sure you're ready to get home."

Syra stared questionably at the academy director. "Let's just skip the chit-chat and cut straight to the part where you tell me I'm expelled."

Davis's smile only widened, and his hand rested on her knee. "I guess you haven't heard the news, then." He waited before continuing to watch the mix of facial expressions morph the young woman's face. "Agent Rumlow put in a good argument for you to the right people in a phone conference. You see, those people we work for, fight for their own. You saved Agent Rumlow's life. You have his utmost respect. That is something not easily achieved. As such, he convinced some higher-ups in D.C. to grant you pardon on your…offenses."

Syra's brow furrowed and eyes cut down on the academy director. " _Offenses_?"

Davis put his car in gear and drove away from the hospital as he explained on the way to the academy.

Once they arrived at the academy, Syra was startled. "What are we doing here? Am I to resume my classes or something?"

Davis laughed and waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, no. Not at all. The hospital has insisted you remain on bedrest for the rest of the week. Depending on how your check-up goes next Monday morning, you might be allowed to resume your training then. Of course, you'll be exempt from participating in certain classes like hand to hand combat and firing range practice. Don't want to hurt yourself further, now do you?" Syra rolled her eyes and grumbled. "We're here because Agent Jensen's employee locker needs to be cleaned out. I felt it best you be the one to do so, given your relation to him." Davis stopped the young woman from leaving the car by grabbing her wrist. He politely asked with his eyes she remained inside the car a little bit longer. "About your husband's funeral…" Syra studied the director with keen jade eyes. "There's a reason why I pushed to have you discharged from the hospital early. You weren't supposed to be released until Friday. His funeral will be held tomorrow afternoon at two-o-clock."

Syra nodded and left the car. She proceeded through the academy faculty parking lot and to the front glass doors of the central building. She stopped just inside the central lobby, however, when she saw Agent Rumlow and his two STRIKE team members standing nearby. Unblinking jade green eyes locked onto brown ones.

A tingle ran down Brock's spine. There was no fear or nervousness in those eyes. There were no tears, no sadness…just hate. Pure, unbridled hate and a hungry lust for revenge. That look in her eye was enough to stir some excitement within his pants. His mind went straight to a place he wasn't ashamed to think about. Nothing felt better than angry sex, make-up sex or rough animalistic get it out of the system sex. He wondered which one she would be at that moment; number one or number three? He imagined those nails of hers raking down his back as he buried himself further between those thighs…hearing her moan his name… The memory of the smell of her hair and the feel of her body pressed against him made the fly of his pants feel more constricting. He wanted her. No. He needed her. Brock watched the woman proceed through the academy lobby and pay no nevermind to the stares and whispers in her wake.

Clark snickered at his team leader. "If that isn't the most obvious 'I want to fuck the hell out of you' face, then I don't know what is."

Rollins stared placidly at Brock. "Seriously? Jensen's body isn't even cold, yet, and you've got that pussy on the brain?"

Clark laughed louder. "You kidding me? He wanted to tap that ass before Jensen was killed."

Brock didn't say a thing. He followed behind the cadet and Davis to the second floor where the employee lockers were. There was a men's and a women's side. Syra stood motionless before the men's locker room door.

Brock took one look at Syra and then to Davis. The director gave a subtle nod of his head to the agent. Brock understood and softly stated to the young woman, "Wait here. I'll make sure it's clear, first." With that, he disappeared behind the closing door. He emerged thirty seconds later for an all clear. Syra fought back the tears swelling in her eyes and followed the agent into the locker room. Sitting on a bench in front of Jensen's sealed locker was an empty box. She released a labored exhalation. Brock patted her on her uninjured shoulder in comfort. "I'll leave you to it."

"Stay." The hastily spoken word stopped Brock in his tracks. He forced a weak smile and leaned against the lockers beside her to observe her.

For several seconds the woman stood there, staring at the locker reading Jensen. Above the handle was a password encrypted keypad. The memory of the day she programmed the code ripped her insides apart.

She had snuck into the locker room to find the place empty shy of one person. She tried to sneak up on him, but what good that did. Jensen had her in a chokehold, playfully threatening to rat her out to Agent Davis. She knew he wouldn't. That was when he decided to change the code on his locker seeing how it was in need of it. Upon clearing the last code out, he let her key the new one in. He took her hand in his and used her finger to press the numbers for the new code. When asked what the number was of, he told her; the day of their first meeting.

Agent Rumlow's voice sounding outside brought Syra out of her memory trance. "You okay, there, Cadet?"

Syra didn't answer. Using the same finger Mikel had, she entered the number code. The locker clicked open and with an unsteady hand, opened the locker. There were no pictures taped to the inside of the door or anything suggesting his personal involvement with her. From there, it was emptying the locker of what few items there were; a clean change of clothes, running shoes, and a towel.

On the top shelf was a shoe box. Syra tried to reach for it, hissing at the sharp stab of pain in her left shoulder. Brock helped get the box down and handed it to her. She weakly smiled at the warmth those tough boy eyes enveloped her in. Had she not have been married to Mikel in the past or mourning his passing, she would've taken up the offer he only visually relayed to her. Syra brought her mind back her present task and opened the shoe box. It contained several toiletries.

Minutes later, she finished cleaning out the locker. She left the room with the box of stuff in her hands, knowing she shouldn't be carrying the weight. The pain tearing through her shoulder that radiated through her chest, left arm and upper back was agonizing. She only used this physical pain to nurture her deepening desire to pull the trigger on the enemy boss man.

Syra strode through the academy and to Agent Rumlow's truck. She didn't ask for a ride, nor did he offer. He didn't need to. Rollins and Clark got into the backseat, and both stared at the young woman. Clark nodded in approval to his team leader's reflection in the rearview mirror. Rollins made a gun with his hand and aimed it at the back of the front seat. He didn't trust her and wouldn't until she proved she could be a trusted ally for HYDRA.


	13. A Question of Loyalty

**12 – A Question of Loyalty**

Soft music played in the truck. Brock was damn near ready to drive off a cliff because of it. He hated that pop rock shit. Give him his 80s rock. Even some of the new stuff wasn't half bad. But _this_? He figured his front seat passenger listened to this type stuff, which is why he was doing his best to tolerate it. Clark was bobbing his head to the beat and even lip-syncing some of the lyrics.

Brock saw this through the rearview mirror. "I'm not going to ask how you know this shit."

Clark chuckled. "My niece. She loves this stuff. You can turn on the radio back home, and she'll sing every song that plays."

Syra smiled and adjusted how she sat in the front seat to better look at the backseat passenger. "Aww! That's adorable! How old is she?"

"She's eleven. She thinks she's a lot older, though. Her mouth is already causing problems with her parents and teachers." The two people laughed.

"What's her name?"

"Tamika." Clark saw noticed the sparkle in the woman's eyes and how gentle her features looked when she smiled. He could see how this young woman weaseled her way into his boss's good graces.

Syra continued with her conversing. "Is Tamika your sister's daughter or from a brother?"

"Little sister. Taniya."

"That's awesome. I always wanted a sibling. An older brother, mostly. Just someone I felt was out there looking out for me. Growing up, I envied all those kids getting picked on not because they were getting picked on but because their older brother or sister would step in to defend them."

Clark laughed. "Did you get picked on?"

Syra's smiled faltered for a frown. "All the damn time. When I was in high school, I had to change out in the girls' locker room for gym. That's when I got bullied the most. They called me Scar." Clark was taken back by the unusual nickname. He looked at every feature of her face and couldn't see anything that would merit such a name. Syra could see this. "It's because of an ugly scar I have on my stomach I got when I was fourteen."

Rollins thoughtlessly blurted, "Stabbed yourself running with scissors?"

Syra met the agent's stern hazel eyes. "I was shot by the Winter Soldier." An awkward silence hung in the air. "He left me for dead after he killed the last of my family."

Clark sat at a loss for words. Rollins only reverted his gaze back outside the window. A rough yet comforting hand wrapped itself around Syra's. She didn't have to see who it was for she already knew.

The chill of the woman's hand alarmed Brock. "If you were cold, why didn't you say something?"

Syra shrugged. "I didn't notice. I stayed cold in the hospital, so I guess I got used to it."

Brock kept her hand in his as he placed it on his leg. He was sure the young woman already figured out his intentions, but he still preferred to approach her cautiously. It bothered him a bit when he saw the hairs on her arms stand on end in response to his action. Was it because it excited her? Or was it because she felt threatened by his advances? Perhaps Clark was right; he was trying to rush things.

Brock didn't necessarily see it that way. His normal life was always go, go, go. There was never a slow moment to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman. There had been plenty of quickie flings with female agents and one-night stands with civilian hotties in the past, but nothing long term to look forward to. A part of him wished there was someone to come home to, instead of an empty house. For the two weeks he had been at the academy, his life had finally slowed down long enough to think on his loneliness. He hated slow points in his life. Too much down time to think about stupid squishy shit. But, he also hated when it was go, go, go damn near every day of the week and no time to enjoy a woman's company. What he wanted he knew he could never have. He wanted a Bonnie to his Clyde. While he wasn't robbing banks, he did see himself as a type of Clyde since he was an undercover operative for HYDRA. Maybe it was just him who made sense to the thoughts in his head. Whatever.

Brock looked over at his front seat passenger. The late morning sun dancing across her face gave her complexion a vibrant glow. What if she could be his Bonnie? It would take a lot of grooming and maybe another life-changing experience, but he thought it a possibility. A far out there possibly…

The black truck pulled up to a corner drug store, and Brock killed the engine. Syra looked over at the agent and arched a curious brow. "What are we doing here?"

He reached over and opened up the glove compartment. "Getting your prescription filled."

"I have a prescription?"

Brock got a lengthways folded piece of paper and opened it to see if it was the right one. Sure enough on the top was the cadet's name and codeine listed as the prescribed drug. "Says here you're getting codeine." He held up the paper for the young woman to see.

A rush of panic swept over her expression. "I'd rather be in agonizing pain than take that shit."

Brock stared blankly at the woman. "You got shot in the shoulder, babe. That shit," he pointed at her bandaged wound, "is going to hurt like a mother fucker as soon as the Demerol the doctor pumped you up on this morning starts to wear off. Trust me on this. I know from personal experience." Syra frowned. "And what's wrong with codeine, anyway? It's the best shit." Syra rather not say and looked away from the agent embarrassed. "Seriously, why don't you want to take it?"

"Because it makes me throw up," she grumbled.

Brock just stared. He shook his head. "Whatever. Let's go. You're getting this medication whether I have to force it down your throat or not." He got out of the truck and waited for the woman to do the same. "C'mon, Huggies. Waiting on you." Still, she didn't move. "Look, if you're a good girl I'll get you a toy from the toy aisle, okay?" Syra shot him a middle finger. "Or I can get condoms, too, if you're going to keep offering."

Clark choked back a laugh and buried his face in his hand. The cadet's shocked expression was priceless. Rollins' was no better, though his more relayed a 'too much information' reaction. Why did he agree to join Rumlow in his 'errands' today?

Syra got out of the truck and slammed the door behind her. Brock squared his gaze down on her and aimed a finger at her. "Hey, don't be slamming my doors! You break it, you buy it!"

"You're such an asshole!" Syra reared back a fist and punched the man in the shoulder.

It didn't phase the agent the least. He merely laughed. "At least it got you out of the truck." The woman groaned out loud and stormed inside the drug store. Brock looked at his teammates. Clark was all giggles and Rollins wearing his usual death stare. "You two coming inside or staying?"

Clark got out of the backseat, leaving Rollins inside. Brock shrugged and followed the cadet to the prescription drop off counter. He handed the woman the paper and trudged away to browse through one of the aisles.

Green eyes bored holes through the back of the man's head in irritation. Now to wait thirty minutes for the order to be filled. She plopped down in an uncomfortable chair and winced in pain at her shoulder. The Demerol was starting to wear off and knew by the end of the day, she was going to be in the worst pain imaginable. This frightened her a bit, but she told herself to stay strong. The last thing she wanted was to look weak in front of the STRIKE team.

"Hey, Cadet!" was bellowed at the young woman.

Syra sighed. At least he wasn't calling her Huggies anymore. _"What?!"_ She turned around to see the agent holding up two packages of baby diapers.

"Do you wear a size two or size five?" Brock smirked at the further annoyed green eyes.

Syra's nostrils flared. "Y'know, while we're here you might want to look at getting a prescription refill for your little blue pills. I know performance can sometimes be an issue at your age."

Brock chuckled and reached for a different package of diapers. "They also have the extra leak guard ones if you need those, too. They're not on sale, though." His smirk expanded from ear to ear when the cadet turned around to ignore him.

Clark casually strolled over to his team leader, humming. His hums turned into hushed singing. "Rock a bye baby-"

"I will beat your ass right here," Brock interrupted. Clark laughed and walked on by.

* * *

Syra unlocked her apartment door and tossed the prescription's white paper bag on the small table by the door. It felt strange being in her apartment when she had come to call Mikel's residence her home. Despite how much she wanted to go there and bury herself in the memories of him, she wasn't ready for it. It was too soon. She laid down on her belly on the beige futon in the living room and stared at the floor.

Knocking on the door filled the quiet apartment. Syra groaned. "What now?"

No surprise it was Agent Rumlow opening the door and poking his head inside. "I'll be back in a little bit. I'm going to go drop my boys off at the hotel and grab some grub. Any requests?" Syra didn't answer; only glared in exasperation at the agent. "You don't want a kids' meal from anywhere?"

"Go back to the nursing home that shat you out into society, fuckhead."

Brock chuckled, closed the door and returned to his truck. Rollins was now in the front seat and appearing a bit more relaxed. The STRIKE agent scowled at his team leader buckling into the driver's seat. "How much longer is this going to go on?"

Brock was confused. "What? Us being here? Until Secretary Pierce can get that bastard Fury to-"

"Not that." Rollins gestured at the cadet's apartment with his hand. _"That!"_

A knot of anger tightened in Brock's chest. "By that, you mean Cadet Jensen…that HYDRA has their eyes on recruiting…"

Clark leaned forward between the front seats to include himself in the conversation. "You know this, how?"

Brock started his truck and took hold of the stick shift with a tight grip. "Davis told me. As did Freddie. Apparently, Davis has been talking to Pierce about her, too. It's why she's still allowed to train at the academy and not out on her ass in the street. From what I know after this past weekend, I can see why HYDRA is interested in her." He put the truck in reverse and backed up. "She's easily manipulated. Already her willingness to follow SHIELD is faltering. I say this because she's on board for that little plan to go after the merc boss and take him out, knowing it's not a SHIELD approved mission."

Rollins was skeptical. "But she doesn't know it's a HYDRA commanded mission, either!"

"Relax, Rollins." Brock drove away from the apartment community and onto a small city street. "She trusts me."

"That's because she thinks you're with SHIELD. What happens when she finds out you're not?" The man ground his teeth, something Brock knew he did when pretty pissed off. "I wouldn't put it past her to rat us out."

Clark could tell the conversation was whittling down the senior agent's patience. He wanted to drop the topic but wanted to know he could trust his boss regarding future matters with the cadet. "What happens if she does talk?"

Brock flexed his white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel. "I'll take care of it."

"Will you?" Rollins sounded confrontational, and it wasn't sitting well with Brock.

"Yeah…I _will!"_ snarled the STRIKE leader. "Just as I did with Agent Megan Winslow fifteen months ago…" Brock slammed the truck into fourth gear and sped up to merge with the city loop traffic, "after she went running to Pierce with evidence that HYDRA had operatives within SHIELD."

Clark furrowed his brow in bewilderment. "Agent Winslow went MIA on a mission in Bosnia…" The agent watched something dark take over his team lead. His jaw squared, gaze on the road lower and a subtle curl pull at his upper lip. It was enough to put Clark on edge. "Or…so I thought."

"I was the last thing that bitch saw before I put a bullet through her skull point blank range."

"Damn." Clark sunk into the backseat. "You had a thing for her, though…didn't you?"

"I loved her." The words left Brock before he could register them as a thought. The memory of that day flooded the agent with unfathomable rage. After watching that gorgeous auburn haired angle fall lifelessly to the snow, Brock swore to himself he would never care for anyone like he cared for her again. "I've killed someone I cared for once before. Don't doubt I'll do it again."

Rollins studied Rumlow with attentive hazel eyes and cocked a barely visible sneer. There was the man he knew; cold-blooded and ruthless. "Hail HYDRA."


	14. Clever Little Shit

**13 – Clever Little Shit**

An empty hamburger wrapper was wadded up and tossed into a fast food bag. Brock wiped his hands off on a napkin and let out a satisfied belch. He wasn't aware he was that hungry as it hadn't been that long ago he last ate. And he had a pretty big breakfast, too, with Rollins and Clark at a twenty-four-hour breakfast joint.

The man popped a breath mint into his mouth as he returned to Cadet Jensen's apartment complex. Along the way, he pondered the possible scenario outcomes should the young woman follow through with her word and join them on their mission to take out the Turkish mercenary boss. Would he tell her, then, he was HYDRA? He then thought about how she would react. Angry, possibly. Maybe even accepting. Should she not accept it and try to tell someone, he already told his best men he'd take care of it by silencing her. Permanently. But what if there was another way? Blackmail. If she threatened to tell someone, he'd do the same regarding her involvement in pulling the trigger on the Turk. Again, that depending on whether or not she actually went on the mission. Brock knew it would take some time to find the Turk, which could take months. After the whole town square ordeal, he would be a stupid son a bitch to pop his head up in the months following, knowing he was a wanted man by SHIELD. No, he would go into hiding somewhere. It was just a matter of where he would go.

Brock pulled up to the apartment complex and parked in front of the building unit the young woman resided. His footsteps were heavy and his mind clouded with negative thoughts should everything not work out to his plans. He went to the cadet's apartment door and knocked on it. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer several long seconds later. Was she asleep? Puking her toenails up from the codeine?

The agent jiggled the door handle to see if it was open and sure enough, it was unlocked. For someone extremely paranoid of her own shadow, she sure was careless with home security.

Brock cracked open the door and called out. "Cadet?" The sound of the shower water running got his attention.

Not caring if she was angry or not as his uninvited intrusion, he went into the apartment and closed the door behind him. He could see the light from the bathroom shine into the hallway, meaning the door was wide open. Okay, he couldn't pass up this opportunity to steal a quick peek. Not like he expected to see anything, anyway. She probably had one of those thick shower curtains. When he peered around the doorway and into the bathroom, what he saw had him rock hard almost instantly. The form of her nude body could be made out through the frosted glass. Water splashing onto the fogged-up glass gave him a very brief opportunity to _almost_ see the details of her body. The curvature of that shapely ass he wanted to grab a handful of so badly…the perk of her breasts…34B in size from what he could tell. While he wouldn't have minded slightly larger breasts, he wasn't going to complain about the ample handful he was seeing.

There was no mistaking the white bandages taped over her gunshot wound, though.

Brock mumbled under his breath, "Oooh…my…G-" Then the shower water cut off.

Never had the man evacuated a scene so quickly before in his life. He rushed off into the living room without making a sound and made sure to stand as far away from the hallway as possible. Now to figure out how to hide his painfully obvious hard-on. While he waited for the woman to finish drying off and get dressed, he thought of everything he could to kill his sidetracked mind. Nothing was working. Finally, the woman left the bathroom. This was about to get really awkward, really fast.

Syra flicked off the bathroom light and continued to dry off her hair as she went to the living room. Seeing Agent Rumlow standing in her apartment startled her. She shrieked out loud and almost fell backward. "Holy shit!"

Brock huffed a laugh. "I told you I was coming back." His gaze fell on her choice of comfortable clothing; a black spaghetti strap tank top and pink kitty pajama pants. He felt his arousal and a part of himself die a little at the sight of her pants. Too bad she wasn't wearing a white tank top instead. It did help she wasn't wearing a bra, though.

Syra rolled her eyes, groaned something under a sigh and shook her head. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking up on you." Brock looked at the prescription bag left untouched on the table by the door. "Making sure you take your meds like you're supposed to."

"No!" Syra stomped past the agent and went into the kitchen. "I've been taking something else, anyway."

"Vicodin? Percocet?" Brock watch the cadet take a bottle of cinnamon whiskey out of the fridge and set it heavily down on the kitchen cabinet. He cocked an amused smile. "Whiskey works, too. Wait, you're not even twenty-one yet! How the fuck do you have booze?"

Syra poured her shot glass full and downed the drink in one gulp. "Mikel. He bought me alcohol all the time. Wine, beer, liquor…"

Brock blinked. "Y'know, if the agency catches you drinking underage it's your ass and mine, too, since I know about it."

The bottle was recapped and stashed back inside the fridge. "So did you come to nag at me about my poor life decisions or was there a purpose to your presence?"

Brock crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his gaze down on the woman. "Your meds?"

Syra smirked. "Do you know the hazards of mixing alcohol and certain medications? That's my fourth shot. Those hazards only increase with the more alcohol I consume."

Clever move. "You…clever…little…shit." Everything this woman did garnered her more and more admiration from the agent.

Syra approached the man. "Since you're here, might as well make yourself useful." And just like that, he was getting hard again. She pointed at her bandages. "It's time to change them out, and I could use the help."

The two people stared the other in the eye, the overwhelming urge to kiss the woman clawing at Brock's self-control. He could smell her shampooed hair, her lavender body wash -or was that lotion?- all laced with the scent of cinnamon whiskey. Those eyes…how they stared up at him with their jade green depths. Her slightly parted pale rose lips beckoned him to kiss them.

Syra watched something change in the agent's eyes as his entire demeanor changed without him making a single move.

"Sure, I'll help you out…when I'm done," he stated in a gruff voice.

Syra arched a brow in confusion and shrugged. "Done with what?"

"You."

"Wha-" but before she could even get one word out, her mouth was seized by the STRIKE agent's.

Brock grabbed Syra by the back of her head with one hand and pulled her hips to his with another. He shoved her against a portion of the wall near the kitchen and used his body's strength to pin her there. The taste of cinnamon whiskey was teasing his tongue, and the friction of her body against his painfully erect cock had him moaning into her mouth. He savored what he had longed to do in the days leading up to this moment and felt her start to reciprocate. His hand on her hip slipped beneath the elastic waistband of her pajama pants and went straight to the middle of her legs.

Brock's fingers discovered the young woman to be quite wet and aroused. His kiss trailed across her jaw and down her neck. "Wet already, huh?" Brock pulled up the base of her tank top up and over her head and threw it somewhere to the side on the floor. Using his free hand, he groped a handful of one of her breasts while he sucked and toyed her other nipple with his tongue.

Syra snapped herself out of the sex-driven trance the agent had her in. "You need to stop. This doesn't feel right."

"That's not the impression I'm getting." Brock's gentle caresses along Syra's womanhood had her already heavy breath turning into labored pants and whimpers. "You like that?" He extracted his hand from the woman's pants and licked the juices coating his fingers. "You taste fucking sweet, too."

Brock eased her pants down her hips so he could have unhindered access to her body. Her pants joined her shirt, leaving her completely bare and exposed. Taking a single finger, he inserted it into her core's entrance and aimed it to strike her G-spot. A sharp moan from the woman filled the air. Brock couldn't look away from the thin slits of jade green orbs trying to stay open. Her face, ears and down her neck were a deep red color from sexual fluster.

Brock smiled wickedly to himself. "You coming for me?" Syra weakly nodded and gasped a moan. He had to admit, the young woman being so responsive was quite enjoyable. "That's it…come for me, baby." His pressure within her firmed as her grip on his shoulders tightened. Because of, her nails bit into his skin through the fabric of his black t-shirt.

"Don't stop..." she whimpered. "I'm coming… _I'm coming!"_ Brock wasn't about to slow in his pleasing the woman. Syra's back arched as she restrained a vocal moan. _"Don't stop!"_

"Fuck yes, baby, that's it!" Brock felt her body spasm in release against him.

Syra whimpered, "Oh, fuck me, Rumlow."

And here he was half expecting her to call him by another name. Hearing her damn near cry out his name had him unable to resist any longer. He unholstered his custom pistol from the back of his pants and sat it on the nearby dining room table. He then damn near ripped off his shirt and was sure he broke the zipper of his pants in the process of unfastening them. Within moments, his erection was free of its restriction and his pants at his ankles. Suddenly he hated his boots as he fought with the laces and tugged them off. In a series of swift movements, Brock hoisted Syra up to wrap her legs around him as he completely thrust into her.

A gasped yelp escaped her. Brock's initial rhythm was quick and forceful, so much that Syra didn't know if she should cry from pleasure or pain. Her mouth was once again passionately assaulted by the man's and her breath stolen by it. Her injured shoulder was screaming at her, but before her brain could register the pain for very long, another approaching orgasm stole the focus.

Brock was in pure bliss. The constricting muscles of the woman's inner walls were ushering him closer to his own climax as was her nails raking across his shoulders. "Your pussy is ungodly tight." The woman was peeled off the wall as the agent relocated their lovemaking to the futon.

Brock positioned himself above his lover and reinserted himself within her, though a bit slower this time. His hips ground into hers as the two moved together against the other. Because of his angle compared to hers, he was striking her G-spot each thrust he made. Brock wasn't sure how much longer he was going to last at this rate.

"I'm coming," Syra whimpered. She had a tight grip on the back of the man's arms and her legs just as tightly wrapped around his hips.

Brock felt her body spasm for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Words escaped him on how beautiful she was at that moment with her head thrown back and body quaking in pleasure. A pinkish scar located on her left side caught his eye. He knew its origins and tenderly ran a thumb over it. About that time, his cell phone started to ring. And there went the moment.

Brock verbally lashed out at the unwanted distraction. "Gotta be fucking kidding me!"

He didn't want to stop. But what if the call was important? The last time he ignored his cellphone, it was an important call, and he got a hell of an ass reaming from Director Fury about it. Not wanting a repeat of that, Brock reluctantly crawled off of Syra and fished his phone out of his pants pocket. Rollins' name flashed across the screen.

Brock answered in an almost yelling voice. "Fuck you, man! You have to call _right now_?" He put the phone on speaker and set it down on the futon's armrest. The agent fiercely kissed the beautiful angel below him and wasted no time getting back to his previous rhythm. "The fuck do you want?"

Rollins answered in a tone of voice much like his team leader's. "What the fuck is up the with attitude?"

"Seriously, man, what in the hell do you want?"

Rollins released a slow and heavy sigh. "Clark and I were about to head to the bar for some drinks. You coming?"

Once again, Brock spoke before thinking. "Funny you should ask that, right now."

Clark was heard laughing hilariously in the background. The call must have been on speaker on their end just as it was on Brock's. "For fuck's sake," groaned Rollins and the call was abruptly ended.

Syra punched the STRIKE agent in the side. "Thank you for announcing my personal life to your bros!"

Brock stopped her from hitting him again and sneered. "Oh, you like to play rough, do you?" He both strengthened and quickened his motions against her that kept her mute of words but full of moans and whimpers. "I'm getting close," he grunted and, in a few pumps, pulled out to completely drain himself on the inside of Syra's thigh. The room was spinning around his head, and his heart beat racing from his exertions. "God, you're beautiful." Brock passionately kissed those trembling pale rose lips and laid down beside her.

Syra rolled her eyes and grabbed a blanket draped over the back of the futon to wipe off her leg. "You're so full of shit."

Brock scoffed a laugh. "No, I'm not! I've been nothing but honest with you since day one. Why would I start lying now?"

Once her leg was as cleaned off as it was going to get, she dropped the blanket to the floor. Syra cut her eyes down on the pleased with himself STRIKE agent. "Then answer me this…"

Brock snaked an arm under the woman's head so she could lay her head on his chest. Wait a minute, wait a minute… what the fuck was he doing? _Cuddling?_ Since when did he cuddle _anyone_ after sex? He gave up arguing with himself. There was no reason to at this point. Fucking. Parasite.

Brock rested his hand on Syra's hip and caressed the soft skin there. "Okay, what's the question?"

Syra propped herself up on her right elbow to look down at the sweat-laden man. "Those powerful people you mentioned…" Brock's chest seized up. Here it comes… wait for it… wait for it… "They're HYDRA, aren't they?"

Aaaannnnd _BAM!_ The broken beautiful figured it out a hell of a lot faster than Brock imagined. To the rest of the blissfully ignorant world, HYDRA was destroyed thanks to the actions of Captain America during World War II. How the fuck HYDRA crossed her mind was the million-dollar question. Brock groaned a sigh and cut his eyes up at the green ones looking down on him. Her partially damp hair from her shower curtained her face and tickled his neck. With a touch ever so gentle that even surprised him, he combed the stray locks behind her ear.

When Brock didn't answer, Syra's eyes glazed over with tears. She sniffed back an encroaching sob. "Mikel was right. He suspected HYDRA was lurking about like a cancer in the shadows. Just because that deformed freak leading HYDRA back in the forties was killed by Captain Rodgers doesn't mean an entire organization is just going to dismantle and call it quits." She watched the agent -no, HYDRA operative- clench his jaw and get up. "What's that saying? Cut off one head, and more will grow back in its place?"

As Brock got dressed, his heavy eyes settled on his custom SIG-Sauer P226. He was starting to tear up. Seriously? He reached for the pistol and with a flick of his thumb, took it off safety. The gun cocking shattered the gut-wrenching silence in the air. "Yeah…something like that."

Syra continued. "That's why Mikel hated you so much. He knew you were HYDRA…he just couldn't prove it."

The man slowly turned around to see saddened jade green eyes unblinking on him. She hadn't moved where he left her, stretched out on the couch. Brock raised his gun and centered the sites on that beautiful face. The last time he saw her similar to this, she was afraid and crying from a panic attack at the academy range. Now it was different. There was no fear in those eyes nor was she shaking from a panic attack.

Those eyes…

In those endless seconds that felt as though time had stopped, Brock realized something about himself. He wasn't hesitant when he pulled the trigger on Winslow. He wasn't hesitant pulling the trigger on all the SHIELD agents he offed under HYDRA's orders. He didn't even falter in pulling the trigger that day at the firing range teaching this same cadet to overcome her fear, either. So why was now different? Because Winslow and those SHIELD agents weren't a product of his creation like this girl was. In the two weeks they had been exposed to the other he had made her stronger just as she had become his weakness.

The knuckles of Brock's hands shined in the dimly lit apartment, but his finger was feather soft around the trigger. Then his aim fell. His expression was contorted with inner turmoil and regret. "You're a damn parasite, you know that?" He secured his pistol and stormed out of the apartment. The door was slammed so hard it rattled the wall.

Syra blinked in wordless shock. A parasite? Where the hell did that come from?


	15. Something About Them

**14 – Something About Them**

What had she gotten herself into? Syra felt numb all over and disconnected with herself for a number of reasons. Here she was afraid to look over her shoulder for fear of who she would find only to discover they were in front of her the whole time; HYDRA. Suddenly she became aware Agent Rumlow, and his STRIKE team wasn't the only operatives she had encountered. Syra remembered how the agent interacted with specific instructors at the academy, including the director. She concluded those who seemed to favor the arrogance of the agent were HYDRA as well while others, like Agent Ramirez, were SHIELD. But what about Fredricks? He was a bit different to figure out. While he appeared to be on good terms with Rumlow, he also interacted with Mikel as though good friends. Syra knew her late husband had always been on the lookout for agents associating with those he knew were affiliated with HYDRA. Wouldn't he have discovered Fredricks to be of that affiliation, _if_ he were an operative? If Fredricks were HYDRA, he was damn good at concealing it. Maybe it was why he stayed on such good terms with Mikel; he didn't want to be discovered.

It was more than Syra wanted to think about, but it was a reality she was forced to face head-on. As far as Agent Rumlow went…well…she suspected something about him, seeing how Mikel was always so on guard around him. How he acted and even the fight they got into at the range definitely let her know there was a valid explanation for the sniper's distrust for the other. Why didn't Mikel tell her about the STRIKE agent? Why keep it from her? Was it to protect her and keep her from losing her shit?

While Syra feared the agent, now, she couldn't help but still harbor some level of respect. Despite his constant singling her out in hand to hand combat and teasing her with that stupid Huggies nickname, he continued to help her in his own demented way. He even seemed protective of her at times, too.

Then came what happened only minutes ago. She could still feel her body tingling and coming down from the cloud nine Rumlow placed her on. Surely, he didn't go out of his way for her the past two weeks just to score a wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and that's it. There had to be something more to it; something more to him.

The sound of something impacting metal outside in the parking lot captured Syra's attention. She scurried off the couch, got dressed and rushed outside. She stopped in her tracks to see Rumlow leaning against the side of his truck with a noticeable dent in the driver's side back-quarter panel.

Syra cautiously approached the angered man and stepped around to face him. He growled, _"What?"_

Syra bit her lips together with a mix of emotions. She didn't see an elite team's leader. She didn't see a HYDRA operative either. She saw a human being wrought with similar, if not the same, conflictions as her. Just as he could've easily killed her, she could've easily called one of Mikel's closest and most trusted friends about him. Why she didn't when she had the chance she did not know. Her eyes rested on the red and angry knuckles of the man's hand and to the daring brown eyes staring at her.

That look pained her. She found herself missing the warmth in those eyes as he helped calm her after a PTSD attack in class…how she found unspoken comfort in them when downrange of his aim…and lastly how they lit up when he smiled and even laughed. None of that could be found anywhere in his concrete expression.

Syra took a step closer. "You said once you were done with me you would…help me with this." She aimed a finger at the minorly bloody bandage on her shoulder. "That happens to hurt like a mother fucker…thanks to you." Syra rested her small hand on the swelling and bruising knuckles.

Brock wanted to wrap a hand around her throat and choke the words out of her…possibly even the life out of her, too. Every muscle in his body was tensed and ready to physically lash out at the young woman. No matter how much his body wanted to act, just one little part of him had him utterly unable to. If he could rip that part of him out of his chest, he would.

Syra pried her fingers under the man's hand to hold it the best she could in hers. "C'mon…come help me with this."

"Fuck off." Brock jerked his hand out of hers and walked away to get in his truck.

Syra frowned but accepted it. "See ya around, then."

The truck engine roared to life as she solemnly went back inside the apartment. She closed the door behind her and locked it. Her hand still lingered over the door's deadbolt for a few seconds before the lock was clicked back over. Something told her she hadn't seen the last of the tough as nails agent, especially since he left his wallet. She had seen it in her peripheral vision while watching the agent get dressed. Her best guess was it fell out of his pants pocket when he was fighting to get his boots off, and it ended up kicked under a dining room chair sometime afterward.

Syra picked up the fist-sized, black leather item and sneered to herself.

* * *

Brock angrily strode past Clark's open hotel room door. He could hear some sports event playing on the TV in his passing as well as see his teammate kicked back on the bed. He gave the agent no second thought as he approached his own hotel room.

Clark bounded out of his room with a mischievous grin on his face. Seeing the tempered scowl on his team leader's face quickly broke Clark's teasing mood. Was he still mad about Rollins' phone call interruption? "Um…sorry about the call, earlier…"

"It's whatever," Brock grumbled. The disgruntled STRIKE agent reached into his back pants pocket for his wallet where he kept his room's keycard. It wasn't there. Where his wallet should have been was gone. He patted his other pants pockets, finding his SHIELD agency issued ID and nothing else. His truck. It must've fallen out in his truck. Brock pushed past Clark and ran down the concrete sidewalk to his truck.

Rollins joined Clark outside, and the two watched the third man tear his truck apart in a slew of profane rants. Rollins popped a sunflower seed into his mouth and chewed on it for a moment before spitting out the shells. "What's his problem?"

Clark shrugged and tilted his head to the side. "Beats the hell out of me."

 _"Mother fucker!"_ Brock slammed the front seat back into place after sliding it forward to look all around it. There was nowhere else his wallet could be, except at Cadet Jensen's apartment. He needed to stay away from her right now. More like from now on to be exact. She was destroying his sanity.

Rollins leaned against the front of the truck, mouth twitching as discarded sunflower shell after shell flew from his lips. "Lose something? Like your _dignity?"_

Brock planted his hands on his hips and hung his head in defeat to the situation. "Shut the fuck up, Rollins."

He had no other choice, but to go back and get it. That and because he still had the box of Agent Jensen's shit from his locker in the backseat floorboard. It was either leave it on the cadet's doorstep or burn it and piss on it at the same time. Syra would never forgive him if he ever did that. _Why the fuck did he still care about her opinion?!_

Another seed shell was spat out, hazel eyes cutting down on the senior agent. "Well?"

"That bitch has my wallet."

Rollins scoffed. "So, she has your balls and your wallet. Got it."

"I swear to fucking God, Rollins… keep talking your shit…" Brock got into his truck and started it up.

Clark held up a finger for his boss to wait and rushed back inside his hotel to get this pistol, wallet, keycard, and boots. Rollins didn't say a damn thing as he turned on a booted heel to return to his hotel room. Clark shouted, "Shotgun," and got in the front seat.

Brock rolled his eyes at the agent. " _Shotgun_? What are you, twelve?" Sometimes, working with the man was like working with a comedic child. Other times, it was like working with an unstoppable force.

Clark buckled in and nestled comfortably into the seat. "I can count on one hand the number of times I've gotten to sit in the front seat. When I see an opportunity to, I take it." Rollins emerged from his hotel room, closed the door behind him and glared acidly at Clark. It was a glare that made his team mate's blood run cold. "And pray to whatever god is listening Rollins doesn't shoot me for it."

There were times Brock couldn't help but smile at his two best men's antics. This was one such occasion. The truck was thrown into reverse and was soon racing back to the apartment.

Rollins looked at the offensive box of Jensen's crap sitting at the other end of the back seat and pulled it towards him. He rummaged around in the contents and found the shoebox under a folded towel. The towel was nudged aside, and the box opened up. At first, it looked like nothing more than something for toiletries. Lifting the lid a little bit more revealed a picture of the smiling cadet taped to the top. Rollins pulled the picture off the box lid to get a better look at it. The cadet was at the academy firing rage and laughing. Her hearing protection was around her neck and her safety glasses atop of her head of messy brown hair.

Rollins flipped the picture over to see the date taken was from nine months ago. He looked back at the picture and then up at the intense brown eyes watching his every move through the rearview mirror.

Rollins held up the picture for his boss to see. "It was taped in a box lid." He flicked the picture into the front seat and resumed digging through the box of stuff.

The picture bounced off the dashboard and into the passenger seat floorboard. Clark bent over and picked it up. He looked at the picture and pressed out a thin smile. "She is cute."

"Fuck it." The words were the first things Brock had said since leaving the hotel.

Clark huffed a laugh. "You'll be doing something like that to it later, I'm sure." The man slid it into the driver's side visor. "Unless you got some pictures from earlier? Maybe a video or two?"

Brock pulled into the apartment's parking lot and loudly groaned. He got out and went around to the backseat to get the box. "Whatever you took out, put it back Rollins."

"There's nothing there to take. It's all crap." The agent got out and joined Clark on the sidewalk. Together, they joined their team leader in their trek to the apartment door.

Brock held the box on his hip as he pushed open the unlocked door. Seriously, did this girl ever lock her door? He found her lounged out on the futon, feet propped up on the back, and the contents of his wallet scattered around her. In one of her hands was what looked like his driver's license. In the other was a red sucker. Syra paid him no attention in the process of looking through his stuff. On the floor next to her was the bottle of cinnamon whiskey.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Brock dropped the box down on the table by the door in a furor.

Syra held up his Virginia state driver's license and hummed to herself in thought. "Rumlow, Brock Anthony. Huh…You don't look much like an Anthony. Date of birth June eighth, nineteen-sixty-five. Eyes, brown. Height, five feet ten inches…"

"Alright, that's enough. Give it back." Brock stomped over to the young woman and tried to snatch his driver's license back. She was quick and jerked it out of his reach.

Clark giggled boyishly and nudged Rollins in the side. "He's so totally into her." Rollins just glared in discontent and scoffed.

Brock finally snatched his license and wallet back. He stashed everything back in their appropriate sleeves and the wallet shoved into his pocket. "Don't touch my stuff! Got it?"

Syra stood up with the cinnamon whiskey in her hand and the sucker stick protruding from her lips. "You touched mine, first." She wasn't sure what came over her as she grabbed the agent's ass in her sauntering past him. How this guy managed to bring out the bold and not gives a shit inside her was beyond her. Or maybe that was from the whiskey finally hitting her. So what she felt a little buzzed…

The cadet gave the two agents standing just outside her apartment door a smile and picked up the box off the table. She took it to her bedroom on the other side of the living room wall.

Clark stepped into the apartment and chuckled to his boss. "Let me tell you something…you just don't let someone like her walk away."

Brock felt his pants getting snug again post her ass grabbing him. How this girl managed to break all his composure and fuck it all inside him was beyond him. Or maybe that was that part of him he wanted to rip out. So what he'd literally be a heartless bastard…

Syra came back into the living room and pointed at her shoulder bandages, eyes set firmly on Rumlow. "While you're here?" and she disappeared down the hall into the bathroom.

Clark snickered under his breath and smacked his team lead on the ass. "Yeah boss, while you're here…"

Brock mock laughed and spun around, punching Clark. The blow was enough to knock the agent to a knee, but not enough to deter his joking around. Clark was still laughing. Brock knew it would take more than that to hurt the brick wall of a black man. Hell, for fun, he tended to challenge his fellow STRIKE teammates who could hit him the hardest. The only person who was capable of doing that was Lorne, a bald-headed human tank of a man with biceps as wide as Brock's thighs.

Brock instantly regretted punching Clark. His knuckles were screaming in protest to the spur of the moment action seeing how they were still sore and bruising from his punching his truck. Clark followed his team to the bathroom, still laughing to himself, as Rollins sighed. He'd already had enough exposure to the cadet for one day to last him a lifetime. He would be happy with much less. Grumbling, he went into the apartment and closed the door. Fuck it.


	16. Hail HYDRA

**15 – Hail HYDRA**

 _"Son of a fucking bi-"_ Syra writhed in pain. Her eyes were squeezed shut and teeth feeling as though about to shatter from being clenched so hard. She was sitting on a stool in front of her bathroom vanity as Rumlow behind her.

"Will you stop squirming! You asked for me to go slow… _I'm going slow!"_ Brock stopped peeling the medical tape securing the blood-stained nonstick bandage on the back of Syra's shoulder.

He gave her a moment to recompose herself before he continued. The skin around the exit point of the gunshot wound was red, swollen and discolored from bruising. There was no immediately seeing what the actual injury looked like. One side of the tape was peeled off. Just three to go, and that was only on the exit point. No telling what the entry point was going to be like since the tissue was much more sensitive there.

Syra was screaming behind her teeth again and desperately trying not to cry in front of the tough agent. It was a fight she was losing. Brock could see her agonizing expression in the vanity mirror's reflection and was bothered by it. He was halfway through the second piece of tape and debated on whether or not he should rip the dressing off or not. He didn't want to hurt the woman, despite the fact he came dangerously close to taking her life.

Clark was sitting on the closed toilet seat lid and playing a game on his phone. "Y'know," he began, "you wouldn't be in nearly this much pain if you took your happy pills." Syra gave a hateful stare to the black man from over her right shoulder. Clark could see this through his peripheral vision and shrugged. "Just saying."

"Are you saying you'll hold my hair back when I throw up?"

Clark gawked at the cadet like she was crazy. "Fuck no! That's your boyfriend's job!" A side nod of his head motioned at the STRIKE lead.

Syra wrinkled her nose in detest. "He's not my boyfriend."

Just as quickly as something indescribable surged within Brock, he yanked the bandage off the brunette. It was as though he was hurt and offended by her comment. Syra cried out in pain and sprang off the stool only to be harshly shoved back down onto it. Rollins, who leaned in the bathroom's doorway and observed like an unblinking hawk, smirked in amusement.

"I'm not done yet." Brock's tone of voice startled the young woman and she recoiled beneath his touch. "Stay!" The sink's hot water was turned on and a clean Q-tip took out of its box. Syra grabbed her cinnamon whiskey bottle off the vanity table and took a drink of it. "Might want to slow down on the bottle or you'll make yourself sick."

Brock washed off the dried blood caked around the stitches, making sure to thoroughly clean the wound. The young woman held up a bottle of triple antibiotic ointment for him to take, but it was dismissed with a wave of his hand.

He patted the clean wound dry with a fresh towel and explained. "It's best to let it get some air for a bit." Even though the injury was irritated due to being pulled and impacted from earlier, it was healing rather well. "Turn around so I can do the other side."

Clark didn't look away from his game when he commented. "That can seriously be taken in the wrong context, considering your extracurricular activities earlier today."

Syra shuffled her feet to turn herself around and face the agent. Jade green eyes were cut down on stern brown ones. "After you're done doing this side, are you going to threaten to shoot me again?"

 _"Again?"_ Clark stopped playing his game to gawk at Rumlow in both curiousness and worry. "What's she talking about, boss?"

Syra's nostrils flared. "Hail HYDRA, am I right?"

Rollins had his pistol in hand and cocked it in the blink of an eye. The STRIKE team leader felt his ire start to overcome the parasite's infection and harshly jerked the woman off the stool by a hand around her neck.

He slammed her against the seafoam green wall right next to them and neared her face with thinned infuriated eyes. "Let me tell you something, little girl… You run your mouth about us to anyone, and you'll end up in a shallow unmarked grave where no one will think to find your ass." Syra tried to pry the hand off her neck, but it was no use. He was stronger than her by a great deal. "I don't hear you running your mouth, now. Got nothing to say?"

The cold metal of the Winter Soldier's hand tightened around her throat, causing her to gasp and choke for air. She tried to claw at the hand in hopes of fighting it off of her. Tears of desperation streamed down her cheeks and onto the cold metal wrapped around her neck. She could feel the heat of his breath against her face as it escaped through the slits in his mask. Something was unnerving in those blood-chilling blue eyes.

Syra squeezed her eyes shut and wept. "Please, don't kill me! _Don't shoot me!"_

She struggled against the Winter Soldier grappling with restraining her. Strong arms wrapped her up from behind, making it impossible for her to even move. The metal hand took hold of the side of her face as his other muffled her desperate pleas to be spared.

Brock had so much of everything else on his mind that he briefly forgot about the young woman's PTSD. "Hold her still, Clark!" The younger man did as requested. He knew a good way to make her stop moving, but that would require knocking her out. "Snap out of it, Jensen!"

Rollins had his sidearm aimed at the hysterical cadet, speechless on how all of a sudden, her attack came on. "Has she done this before?"

Brock nodded. "Oh yeah." In her wild flailing and fighting the men off, her stitches pulled at the back of her shoulder. The jolt of pain grounded the woman back to the real world, and she wailed behind the agent's hand stifling her. "That's it, Jensen. Calm down…you're all right." Clark felt her body shudder against him and wondered how often this happened. "Shh, shh, calm down. It's okay." Brock cradled her face in his hands and examined her returning to normal, aside from her dreadfully pale complexion. "Let her go, Clark. She's okay." Her fearful green eyes fixated on the STRIKE lead, and she nervously swallowed. The alcohol churning her in her stomach ached her nerve-wracked guts as she felt the urge to be sick.

Syra pushed Rumlow aside and lunged for the toilet. Brock ran his hands over his face in vexation.

Clark saw Rollins still aiming his pistol at the young woman, his trigger finger itching to shoot. Clark couldn't say he was surprised. "Put your gun down, man. What's the matter with you? Can't you see she ain't no threat! _She's sick!"_

Rollins' jaw muscles flexed. "She knows we're HYDRA."

Brock grabbed the clean towel off the vanity and got a corner of it wet. "Put it away, Jack." His voice sounded as emotionally exhausted as he looked. When the agent didn't immediately comply, the STRIKE leader neared the other man with a fierce warning etched on his face. Rollins finally did as ordered and holstered his pistol behind him. Brock shook his head to himself and the situation.

Syra threw her back against the cold tiled portion of the wall and wiped her mouth. Her glossy eyes followed the confusing mess of a man in his stepping to where she knelt. He closed the toilet lid and flushed it, kneeling down to wash the residual traces of vomit and drool off her chin.

Brock stared into those distressed green orbs of the young woman and sighed. "How do you do it?"

Syra drew her knees to her chest, her lower lip trembling with the urge to cry. She was embarrassed she caved into another PTSD attack as well as her throwing up in front of the agents. How pathetic she must look. "What do you mean?"

The soiled towel was thrown to the side, Brock answering. " _This!_ This isn't me! I haven't _been me_ in the little over two weeks I've been stuck in this shit hole!" Clark stood a little way behind him, nodding in agreement. "Why? _Because of you!_ Sometimes, I don't know if I want to shoot you or fuck the shit out of you! I'm not a people person!" Clark was shaking his head, now. "I'm getting pretty fed up with this… _with you!_ Rollins is right! Somewhere I lost my dignity! _Because of you!_ I would _love_ to get you out of my head! I really would! Something, _anything_ to go back to being _me_ again!"

Syra's brow furrowed and her eyes slim. "You think I asked for this to happen? You yell at me like it's my fault when I didn't do a fucking thing! All I ever wanted a normal life!"

Brock snorted a laugh. "Your life was already fucked before you were born. Whether you like it or not, HYDRA is a part of you." The woman rested her woozy head on the wall behind her and closed her eyes. "Your grandfather was a part of Johann Schmidt's science team during World War II at a weapons facility in Austria. He was amongst several others taken prisoner for questioning by Captain America. He agreed to tell all in exchange for agency protection.

"Your father was also a scientist for HYDRA, but his guilty conscience got the best of him. He thought he was ratting out several of his co-workers to a high ranking pro-SHIELD official in exchange for a pardon for his 'wrongdoings'. He never could have been more wrong. Your grandfather and father knew HYDRA would come after them for their defecting."

Syra swallowed the burning in her throat caused by acid reflux. "And they did…in the form of the Winter _fucking_ Soldier."

"Like I said, HYDRA is a part of you. You can either accept it," Brock held out his arms to suggest as he and his men did, "or you can fight it and share the same fate as your family." Tumult shredding the woman apart from the inside was evident in her eyes. "Your choice. Hopefully, you'll make the smart choice."

"What does it matter to you what choice I make?"

A semi-smile pulled at a corner of Brock's lips. "Because I'd miss your crazy ass."

Syra felt touched by the genuine sincerity in his voice. "You've only known me for about two and a half weeks. You barely know me."

"Yeah, well…" Brock stood up and offered a hand for the sitting woman to take.

Syra looked at it as though a dotted line she was signing her life away on. HYDRA scared the shit out of her. She knew it was either serve beside the devil and be granted leniency or stand in his path of destruction. Her timorous hand reached up and accepted Rumlow's outstretched one. She was slowly lifted to her feet, though her legs remained unsteady in their support.

Syra looked at Clark's careful watch. What used to be accepting dark brown eyes were now filled with uncertainty. She then looked at the unnerving, and unblinking hazel eyes lowered on her. His right hand was flexing at his side in preparation to unholster his pistol. Syra knew he was only too eager to put a bullet between her eyes.

Jade green then centered on Rumlow's brown eyes. He almost shot her once. Would he have it in him to actually pull the trigger the second time around? Syra scoffed and cocked a half smirk. "Hail HYDRA."

Brock didn't wholly believe she meant the words and was bothered by it. It was at least the first step in the right direction. He hoped in time she would become a just as dedicated operative as he and his best men were. The man nodded in acceptance of the answer, regardless, and enveloped the woman's nervous form in his arms. Brock held her against his chest and buried his face in her neck.

He quietly stated into her ear, "You better not be fucking with me."

Syra brought her arms around his neck the best she could until her left arm refused to raise any higher. "Trust me. I've been honest with you this whole time. Why would I lie now?"

Brock remembered saying something along those lines earlier in the day. While he was amused at her play on his words, his voice remained strict. "Because your life depends on it."

Syra pulled away from the embrace just enough to look into those brown eyes that held comfort yet caution. "Then I'll prove it to you. I trusted you to not shoot me that day at the range…now trust me."

He didn't think she would be stupid enough to try bullshitting her way out of this situation, even with those damn hypnotizing eyes of hers. She was a smart girl. It was just a matter of how much he could trust her.

Brock sighed in deepening annoyance. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Being a fucking parasite." He seized her by her upper arm and planted her ass back on the vanity stool. "Now _sit!_ So I can finish this shit and go get drunk. I need it right now." Brock pulled another clean towel off the stack of others folded on a set white wicker shelves hanging next to the shower stall.

Syra hissed and winced as the agent washed off the trickle of blood from a pulled suture. "Why do you keep calling me a parasite?"

"Because _you are!_ You're stuck…in my head…and sucking me dry of my dignity!"

The woman fumbled with a blush brush that had been laying amongst the rest of her makeup at the far-right corner of the vanity and bit her lips together innocently. "I can always suck on something else if me sucking on your dignity is such a bad thing."

Brock instantly stopped washing off the woman's angry red wound to stare in appall at those jade green orbs taunting him through the mirror. Clark busted out laughing and clapped his hands together. "Oh shit, boy!"

Rollins almost punched his team leader but refrained. "Fucking Christ, Rumlow," he groaned and stormed out of the bathroom in disgust. "Just shoot the crazy bi-polar bitch and be done with it! No more parasite problem!"

Clark followed behind his teammate in a fit of hysterics. Brock couldn't quite make out what Rollins was ranting about in the living room over Clark's laughing and didn't care. The STRIKE leader pointed at the cadet and lowered his gaze down on her. "I hate you right now, just so you know that."


	17. Resistance

**16 – Resistance**

Another drink of whiskey downed. Brock tapped on his glass with a finger for the bartender, a tall, attractive black woman, to refill. She gave Clark, sitting at Brock's right, a suggestive wink and poured another two shots worth of liquor into the empty glass.

Clark watched the bartender saunter off, a low growl emanating from his throat. Once she was out of hearing range and tending to a set of customers at the other end of the bar, he spoke to his teammates. "Man, I would love to get drunk off those hips."

Rollins was his usual physical presence self and glowering at a TV's baseball game. "Next time you call for a weekend of partying, you can go fuck yourself."

Brock took another gulp of whiskey and groused. "These past five days have been whack as hell. I think the only thing that went according to the plan was Friday night." Clark sipped his long island iced tea and nodded. Brock's cell phone rang in his pants pocket and dug around to get it out. The name, Alexander Pierce, flashed on the screen. Rollins saw it and pray to God it was good news. The STRIKE leader got off his barstool and went towards the door leading to the parking lot. He answered the call. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?" Brock got in his truck and closed the door for privacy's sake.

Pierce replied. "Good news. You and your team have been approved to resume normal duties."

The words struck a spot in the agent that uplifted his otherwise downed spirits. "Thank fucking God. You're a saint, Mr. Secretary. I owe you _big time!_ "

"You bet your ass you do! It took plenty of arguing with Director Fury to clear your names. Something I'd rather not do. The less I have to talk to or deal with that son of a bitch the better."

Brock could tell the councilman was exceedingly agitated. "I completely understand, sir."

"Get packed up. I want you and your team out of there and heading back to Washington first thing tomorrow morning."

Brock nodded to himself in extreme satisfaction. "Yes, sir, and thank you. Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA." And the call was ended.

The agent sunk into the cushioning of the driver seat and laid his head back. His eyes drifted up to Syra's picture tucked in the corner of his visor and pulled it down. He stared at it for a minute or two before stashing it out of sight in the front seat center console. He wanted to purge himself of everything about her. During his two-week incarceration at the academy, he let things get out of control. Possibly to the point of no repair. Now it was time to get back down to business. No more fucking around. No more soft and squishy for him.

Thunder rolled in the clouds above. It was going to start raining soon, Brock hoping the rain would pass while in the bar for at least a couple more hours. Before it could start raining, the man returned to his teammates.

Clark's head perked up inquisitively. "What's the verdict, boss man?"

Brock laughed out and slammed his hands down on the bar. "We're going home, boys!" Clark cheered out loud and clapped his hands in applause. Rollins half smiled and nodded in approval. Brock motioned the bartender over. "Pour us a round, sweetness!"

* * *

In the two and a half hours the STRIKE team lingered at the bar, the rain continued to punish the outside. Just when Brock thought the downpour was subsiding, it would pick up again. A small river had formed along the side of the street that ran beside the bar and dam up in the litter clogged drains.

Clark was beyond drunk. The bartender cut him off thirty minutes ago, but that didn't stop the hyper agent from trying to steal a drink of Brock's whiskey. Twenty minutes after Clark failed at challenging Rollins to a game of pool, the team readied to leave. Brock paid his and his men's bar tabs and left sixty-dollars as a tip. He was feeling generous that night. Being told the best news he could receive at a low point tended to do that for him. Clark laid down in the backseat of the truck as Rollins assumed his place in the front. Brock buckled up in the driver's seat and drove back towards the hotel.

Being the ever attentive self he was, Rollins noticed the picture of Cadet Jensen gone from where Clark put it in the visor above his boss's head. Good. Did Rumlow trash it? Hopefully. Maybe now things could return to normal. He wasn't sure how much longer he could go on being around the team leader with him acting like some fucking hormonal juvenile.

Inside the truck was quiet except for the low volume of the radio. Brock's mind didn't register the music until he started listening to the lyrics of the song currently playing. It was about hating and loving someone, all the while hating the fact they needed that person. The words struck a cord in the man. Too many times had he heard this song before and never paid it any mind. If anything it annoyed him. But tonight, he heard the song differently. One line of lyrics hit him the most. Yeah…he fucked around and got attached.

Rollins reached over and turned off the radio. Since that bitch cadet wasn't around and Clark was passed out in the backseat, there was no sense in listening to the annoying pop rock shit. Brock turned the radio back on. Rollins slowly looked over at his team leader in bafflement.

Brock gave the front seat passenger a quick visual acknowledgment. "Don't touch my fucking radio."

When they arrived at the hotel, the rain had finally let up. Brock retreated to his hotel room and crashed onto the bed. His head was spiraling out of control because of the alcohol or the anticipation to return to the field. Skydiving from Quinjets, parachuting into enemy controlled terrain, taking out as many hostiles he could while competing with Rollins and Clark for kill count sounded like the perfect day. Or night. Maybe early morning hours. It depended on the hour of mission execution. It didn't matter. Hopefully, a noteworthy mission would come his way as soon as he got back to D.C. He was sure there would be an ass ripping from Director Fury, first, about this past weekend's events. As if he hadn't heard enough about his poor decision making by bringing an unqualified cadet into a dangerous, hostile situation. He'd just tune Fury out like he did the times previously, giving the usual 'yes, sir' answer in the process.

Brock became aware of the uncomfortable hard mass stabbing him in his lower back and fought with unclipping his pistol's holster. He lazily dropped his arm extended out beside him on the bed with the SIG Sauer pistol in his clutches. His drunken gaze traced over the details of it and down to the sites. All he could see as he peered over the sites were jade green eyes from earlier in the afternoon. It surprised him how she didn't blink or even flinch in fear of his threat considering the disaster she was only days before. He wanted to cut that damn parasite out of his head, and his hand was on the scalpel. He just needed to man up and remove said parasite. His hand subconsciously squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Good thing the safety was still on.

This was something he knew better than to do.

All his years of training went out the window all because of one girl. No matter how he held the scalpel at the mental image of the worm plaguing him, he couldn't cut her out. He had let her become too lodged into him. In just the two and a half weeks since encountering the young woman, how was it he was falling in love with her? Love was something that took time to develop. This was just an infatuation. Right? But the thought of something happening to her made his blood boil in his veins. She had done something to him in those days. He thought it was a negative change, but was it really?

Brock leaped to his feet and shoved his pistol into the back of his pants. He rushed to the hotel room's small closet and to find his black leather jacket hanging up inside. He ripped it off the hanger and put it on, then trod to the bathroom sink to rinse his mouth out with spearmint mouthwash. What the fuck was he doing? It was nearing ten twenty-five at night. Where did he think he was going?

Brock ran out of his hotel room and unlocking his truck before his room's door could close behind him. He got into the driver's seat and started the engine. When he looked up, he saw Rollins pulling back his room's curtains just enough to watch him through the window. There was no doubt Brock knew that his teammate knew where he was going and why. The senior agent wasn't going to apologize. The clutch was mashed down, and the stick shift slammed into reverse.

Water kicked up beneath the spinning back tires as the truck left the parking lot.

* * *

It was raining again by the time Brock arrived at the apartment complex. What was a little water? Not like it was going to dampen his mood. He sat there and stared at the apartment unit he knew belonged to the cadet. The lights were off which meant she was probably asleep. She needed her rest. It would be best to leave her be. _As if!_ He didn't drive all this way for that.

Brock got out of his truck and ignored the rain in his journeying to the apartment door. He took hold of the doorknob and turned it. It wouldn't turn. The door wouldn't even budge. She remembered to lock the door! He raised his knuckles and knocked on the door loud enough to be heard. _Big fucking mistake!_ Knocking quickly reminded him of his swollen knuckles. He grabbed his sore hand with his other and groaned through clenched teeth. That's when he proceeded to spam mash the doorbell with the pinky finger of his uninjured hand.

Some long moments later, Brock heard the door unlock and deadbolt click over. The door cracked open and groggy eyes peered out over the protective door chain.

Syra squinted her eyes at the agent in confusion. "Forget something again?"

"My team has been cleared to return to D.C." The woman arched her brows and slowly blinked at him. He must've just woken her up as she looked as though trying to process what he was saying. "We're leaving out first thing in the morning."

Syra rubbed her eyes. "Congrats. You got what you wanted. You're getting out of here. Good luck and goodbye." She went to close the door, but the agent's steel-toed boot in the door stopped her. Green eyes narrowed into annoyed slits. "What now?"

Brock shrugged. "Got a minute to talk?"

Syra gawked at the agent in a silent debate. Beads of water trickled down his face and dripped from loose strands of his black hair. His maroon shirt underneath his leather jacket was damp and his black cargo pants soaked from the knee down. That roughed up wet look on him was somewhat appealing. Why was she thinking this way? Mikel's funeral was tomorrow, and here she was admiring the STRIKE agent. Not like it really mattered anymore since she already had sex with him. In her defense, he seduced her while her judgment was impaired by alcohol. It was kind of a copout excuse, but whatever. It was a convenient one.

Brock mentally noted her hesitance. "I'll be quick. Okay?"

Syra looked down at his boot and back up at him. "Move your foot. I can't close the door to remove the chain with your foot in the way."

The agent had a feeling the door was going to be shut and locked in his face if he did as requested. His foot slid out of the way, and sure enough, the door was slammed shut. Fuck. Then he heard metal rattling and the door opening up again. Brock was quick to rush inside before the woman could change her mind.

Syra stood her ground and crossed her arms over her chest. "You have five minutes. Talk."

The song he heard on the radio on his way back to the hotel resurfaced in Brock's head. He opened his mouth to explain, having no idea what to say, and closed it. "Fuck me." The words were aimed at himself and his inability to voice his thoughts.

It's not how Syra took it. "Excuse me?"

The agent mentally kicked himself in the ass. "That came out wrong." He wanted to try this again and recomposed himself. Syra stifled a laugh. "Something funny?"

She nodded. "Yeah. _You!_ The past two weeks all you could do was strut around the academy like some big dog. You bullied and picked on several cadets and fed off their tears. Then you rush into a hostile situation with hostages' lives on the line without a second thought. And yet…after all that…here you are with no idea why you're here!"

Brock gestured to the woman. "You're why I'm here. I wanted to see you before I headed back home."

Syra scoffed. "Whatever. Get out." She strode towards the door, stopping when Rumlow grabbed her by the waist.

He cradled her jaw in his injured hand and pulled her in for a kiss. Had it not been for him tasting strongly of whiskey, Syra might've been more inclined to believe there was genuine intention in his affections. She pulled away and turned her head to avoid another kiss, catching a whiff of the pungent stench of wet cigarette smoke on his clothes.

"You're drunk," the woman chided. "And you stink!"

Brock nuzzled the woman's neck and kissed the soft skin beneath his lips. "I might be _buzzed_ , but it doesn't mean I feel any different about you."

He made another advance at a kiss, trailing along her jaw and finally to her lips. His mouth captured hers in a passionate assault. Brock enveloped her in his arms, which was abruptly ended when she broke away again.

She pressed her palms into his chest to keep him at a distance. "What would your boys say if they knew you were here? Aren't you afraid of your _dignity_ being further tarnished?"

"I don't fucking care. Let them know." His third attempt to woo the woman was a charm. Brock guided his hands down her back and to that shapely ass of hers to grope handfuls of.

Syra giggled and squirmed in the strong embrace. "You're soaking wet!"

The STRIKE agent squeezed the woman closer to him, grinning widely at her playfulness. Even in the night filled apartment, there was no missing the brilliant sparkle in her eyes. What was he thinking wanting to rid himself of her? While he had become vulnerable around her, she was also becoming the best part of him. This was his little parasite, and he deeply regretted trying to fight her infection.

Feeling the man wipe the rainwater off his face and onto her uninjured shoulder made Syra squeal girlishly. "Stop! You're getting me wet!"

Brock softly chuckled into her ear and whispered, "I was hoping to." Hearing his voice so close to her ear sent excitement streaking through her body like lightning. "I hope you don't mind, but I was going to take my time with you this go around." His cold hands gripped her sides as they ventured under the bottom of her tank top.

The chill of his touch against her warm skin made her shudder. "First things first." Green eyes met brown. "You need a shower. You really do smell horrible. I can throw your clothes in the washer while we're… _busy_."

"Sounds good to me." Brock followed her to a tiny washroom beside the kitchen and removed his leather jacket to set aside on the dryer.

His mind was more occupied with the woman as he kissed her in between their undressing. Soon, they were both bare of clothing and fiercely kissing the other. Their hands explored the other's body, kneading malleable flesh and caressing muscles. Syra mapped out each scar along her lover's sides and back with her fingertips, curious to know their story. Brock started to nip and lick down the young woman's jaw and neck as he hoisted her up to sit on the dryer. He didn't care she was sitting on his jacket and ran his tongue across one of her hard nipples. His uninjured hand cupped her other breast, feeling her skin prickle with goosebumps from a chill.

Brock continued teasing the woman with nips and kisses down her stomach. His mouth found the scar on her left side and tenderly kissed it. He brought his lips back to her's and lifted her off the washer to carry her to the bathroom. Brown eyes couldn't look away from green ones.

Soon, they were passionately enthralled in the other as the hot water cascaded over them. Brock brought a hand to the middle of her legs and teased every part of her he could. Once he no longer smelled of cigarette smoke and booze, Syra led him to her bed. She pushed her lover down and straddled his erect cock. His firm hands guided her hips against him in a steady rhythm he joined her in by bucking up into her.

Brock watched the young woman climax three or four times, or so he thought since he wasn't keeping count, and relished in it. With the amount of alcohol he had in his system, he was surprised he could even stay hard. Given the beautiful disaster bouncing on top of him, it was difficult to _not_ be hard. Whether he got off or not, he just wanted to enjoy every minute he could with her.

By the time midnight rolled around, the two were washing off in a second shower. Syra fetched the man's clothes fresh from the dryer and threw them onto the foot of the bed. Before Brock put his shirt on, Syra was able to see the several red scratches from her nails lining his back and sides as well as across his shoulders and upper arms.

She slipped into bikini style underwear and a baggy t-shirt before crawling into bed. She saw Brock about to put on his pants and stopped him. "Stay. I could use the company."

The man nodded and joined his lover in the bed. He wished he could've stayed up the whole night watching her sleep, but knew he needed the rest for the long drive ahead the next day. Instead, he kissed her on the forehead and held her against his chest. Just as the song lyrics went, he couldn't put anyone else above her. Especially in that moment.


	18. Get Used To It

**17 – Get Used To It**

Ringing. That damned offensive cellphone was ringing again. If Brock had a brick at that moment, it would be used to turn his phone off. Sadly, he had no brick. He rolled over and lazily grabbed it off the nightstand.

His sleep-encrusted eyes refused to focus on the caller's name, but he was at least able to see an R at the start of it. That's all he needed to know and answered it. "Yeah, what is it, Rollins?" Brock was too lazy to hold the phone to his ear so he put it on speaker and laid it down on the pillow next to his head.

"It's zero seven twenty. If you're still wanting to leave by eight, I suggest you put your dick back in your pants and get your ass back to hotel for check-out."

Brock laughed behind a yawn. "You calling the shots now, big guy?"

"Someone has to since Clark refuses to wake up and you've been compromised."

The STRIKE leader looked over at Syra to see sleepy green eyes looking back and smiled. So he was becoming a train wreck of uncertainty on how he felt from one minute to another. Or the fact he had allowed himself to become so out of his normal character that he didn't recognize himself anymore. As long as he kept his shit together on missions, what did it matter otherwise?

Brock sat up and scratched his head of messy hair. "Wake Mitch up. I figured we'd get some breakfast before we hit the road. Just need to check out of the hotel…drop off the rental car…"

"I already checked Clark and I out. I'll return the rental when you've gotten your shit together."

Brock rolled over to fully face the woman and took her hand in his to kiss the top of it. "Here's an idea…" He was forming a plan in his head he knew would piss Rollins off, but he was in a good mood and wanted to fuck with him. "Go drop off the rental. I'll be there in a minute." Brock ended the call and cunningly smiled at Syra.

She saw he was plotting something and was curious by it. "Dare I ask what's going through that head of yours, right now?"

"Want to have a little fun?" Brock kissed her on the forehead and leaped out of bed to get dressed. Syra followed suit, just less as enthusiastic as the other.

* * *

Syra locked her apartment door, shaking her head. "He is going to be _pissed_!" Brock took hold of her hand and entwined his fingers in hers. They casually strolled to his truck, smiling and laughing about the cruel joke they were going to pull over on Rollins. "I think he might even shoot me."

"Nah," Brock chuckled. He glanced over to his right to see an elderly woman walking two Pomeranian dogs on sparkly pink leashes. She smiled behind her half-moon spectacles and waved. He didn't return the gesture, only continued towards his truck. Brock took his keys out of his leather jacket's pocket and held them up for Syra to take.

She stared at him in disbelief and blinked. "You're…you're serious."

"Yeah! Here." He handed them to her and watched her bounce happily to the driver's seat.

Syra unlocked the doors and crawled in. She adjusted the seat, wheel, and mirrors and started it up. Brock felt awkward being in the passenger seat. _No one_ drove his truck. _Ever_! And yet for some unknown reason, he was letting Syra drive. He rolled down the passenger window to enjoy the fresh morning air all the way to the hotel.

When they pulled up, the rental car Rollins and Clark checked out after arriving at the airport Friday was gone. Clark was sitting outside his hotel room, its door propped open by his suitcase. Sitting next to him on the ground was Rollins' only piece of luggage, a hunter green gym bag.

Clark appeared worse for wear and hung over, but not that out of it when watching the black truck pull up in front of where he sat. His blank expression shifted between the truck's diver and passenger. The fuck was he seeing? He observed his team leader getting out of the passenger seat and looking very much capable of driving.

Brock passed the speechless agent as he passed by on his way to his hotel room. In a matter of a few seconds, the truck was backing up and driving away.

Clark stumbled after Rumlow in a flurry of perplexity. "Hey, Boss, what's going on?" Brock didn't verbally answer, only smiled. "I think I know what's going on, here." Still no answer. "You know he's going to shoot her, right?"

* * *

Rollins stood outside the car rental company's building and saw the familiar black truck down the road. _Finally_ , Rumlow showed u-…wait… _WHAT THE FUCK?!_ As the truck pulled up to his position, he was able to see the driver. She had a smug grin on her lips that matched her taunting green eyes. His jaw hardened and his glower lower on her.

Syra rolled down the passenger window. "Need a ride?" No answer. He didn't even blink. "Or you can walk back to D.C. Your choice." She felt her blood run cold and her heart speed up in her chest. To say she was nervous was a lie. Regardless, the mental image of how thoroughly amused Rumlow was kept her light-hearted. "So? What's it going to be?"

Rollins yanked the front passenger door opened and got inside. He slammed it closed, something he knew Rumlow would yell at him about. _If he was there!_ Since he wasn't, it didn't matter. The greatly disgruntled STRIKE agent took his pistol out of his holster behind him and cocked it.

Syra's grin widened. "Oh! You're into foreplay, are you?"

"I will fucking shoot you."

It took everything the woman had to keep from busting out laughing in the man's face. Just because she was forcing restraint didn't mean those she had on speaker call on her cell phone were the same. The sounds of Rumlow and Clark boisterously laughing erupted over Syra's phone she had hidden in the driver's side door.

Syra thought the agent was about to go into nuclear mode and thoughtlessly joked. "What's wrong, Buttercup? Did you want to drive?"

Clark choked a laugh. "Oh shit, man! Hey Rumlow, you're a bad influence on your girl!"

"No one said I had to be a good one!" The men laughed again. "See you in a little bit, babe. And _don't wreck my truck!_ "

Syra put the truck into gear and sped off. "Not making any promises." The call was ended, and Syra pulled out onto the street. She wove through the different vehicles leaving the airport a few miles back and merged onto the interstate. The young woman fumbled with the radio and put it on the area's local rock music station.

If she was trying to impress Rollins, he wasn't. He hated posers. No way in hell this needy emo bitch listened to rock. She needed to go back to the boy bands and teenybopper music that was all about breakups and going out to the clubs.

Commercials were playing for the moment, allowing Syra an attempt at conversation with the agent. "Why do you hate me so much?" Rollins slowly shifted his gaze from the passing by terrain to the driver. He still held onto his pistol. "Seriously. What have I done to royally piss you off?"

"Can you _not_ talk?"

"I can't figure it out. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Nothing was said between the two people for a couple minutes. "It's because I was married to Mikel the HYDRA hunter, isn't it?" She could see the man's grip tighten around his pistol. "That's it… it's because of Mikel…and now here's your big bad boss following me around like a lost puppy. I didn't ask for his attention. I didn't go flashing my tits and ass to him. Why he likes me, I don't know."

"Don't get used to it. You're just a convenient piece of ass along with the many he's bullshitted over the years."

The bitter words burned the young woman, but she kept her poise. "If that's so then why did he push to keep me in SHIELD? Why has he gone out of his way to help me time and again?" Silence. "Better yet, why did he let me drive his truck?" She sighed. "Seems like I'm more than just a convenient piece of ass." The truck's gas gauge beeped, letting her know there was only a quarter of a tank left. "Guess you better get used to me being a thing, now." She took the next exit and pulled up to a gas pump. "Just because you've never cared or loved someone doesn't mean someone else can't." No sooner did Syra unbuckle then a relentless grip wrap itself around her upper arm.

Rollins jerked her towards him and growled into her ear. "You don't know a _God damned thing_ about me, you little cunt! The moment Rumlow dumps your worthless ass on the street, I'll be right there to put a bullet in that pretty head of yours!"

Fear wracked the young woman and seized every fiber in her body. She snapped her attention to the fierce hazel eyes inches from her face and released a labored breath. "How sweet," she breathlessly began, "you called me pretty." She didn't know what else to say for a comeback.

Rollins shoved the young woman to the other side of the truck and got out. He stashed his pistol back into his holster in the back of his pants and went into the convenient store. He needed to get away from her, if only for a few minutes.

Syra struggled with trembling hands to swipe her debit card through the card reader on the gas pump. Again and again, she tried and failed to get it to register. She refused to let herself give in to her anxiety, but it was no use. What felt like the start of a good day, the hopeful first out of the past several shitty ones was turning out to be like the rest before it. She tried to rerun her card with no luck.

Rollins stood inside the store and watched the young woman fight with her nerves. She reminded him so much of his late younger sister so much it hurt. Analise. Both young women were tall with long brunette hair, fair skin and suffered from anxiety. Lise was only fifteen when she killed herself because of the pressures and bullying to join HYDRA. Their parents had been pro-HYDRA for years, putting the pressure on their children to follow in their footsteps. While he did without question, Lise didn't. It was too much for her to take. Growing up, he was always there to protect her from the big kids on the playground pushing her down. So he got suspended more times than he could count from school. It was worth it, watching kids be hauled away with broken arms, fingers, legs, hands, concussions, and busted up faces all because someone fucked with Lise the wrong way.

Then came the day he got home late from school. The front door was wide open and no one home, or so he thought. Lise's backpack was left abandoned on the kitchen bar, letting him know someone was home. This wasn't like her. She was always good about putting things up; something their parents enforced on them. He called for her with no answer. Upstairs he went to find the bathroom light on. There, laying in a literal bloodbath was his little sister. There was just a breath of life left within her; a breath he tried to save. He desperately fought to stop the bleeding from her slit wrists, but she was too far gone.

The last words she spoke to him forever burned into him. "Show no weakness."

Lise was his weakness, and he blamed her death on him for not being there sooner. Had he been quicker getting home, he could've saved her. In replacement for his broken promise to her, he made another, except with himself. To never let himself get close to anyone ever again.

Unlike Lise, where she was weak Cadet Jensen was strong. Rollins had often wondered over the years what Lise would have become if she joined HYDRA instead. A part of him imagined something like Jensen, eventually fighting through her fears to become stronger.

Rollins' phone beeped with a text message. It was from Rumlow. 'Don't shoot my girl.' Rollins scoffed and slid his phone back into his pocket. If Lise were still alive, Rumlow would be the only person he'd trust to take care of her, just like how he was taking care of Jensen.

Rollins got a bag of potato chips and beef jerky off the shelf and checked out. He returned to the truck to see Cadet Jensen sitting in the passenger seat and still wrought with nerves. Pinched between two fingers of a hand dangling from her lap was her debit card. Rollins snatched it and ran it through the gas pump's card reader.

Syra lifted her head to watch the agent with wordless appall. Was he being nice? Or just trying to rush what she wasn't? She was handed her card back, more like thrown back, and the gas nozzle inserted into the truck's open tank. Rollins stood there, arms crossed over his chest, and watched the young woman through his peripheral vision. She was fidgeting with her fingernails. Lise did the same thing when she was nervous.

Show no weakness.

* * *

Brock stood outside the hotel front office's double glass doors and watched his truck pull up to where he and Clark waited. Syra put the vehicle in neutral and pulled the emergency break in preparation to get out. The STRIKE leader went around to the driver's side and noticed the young woman visually upset.

He opened the door, eyes bouncing from Syra to Rollins. "What did you say to her?"

Rollins didn't answer. Just scowled at his team leader. Clark didn't immediately notice as he put his suitcase in the tail bed of the truck. He crawled into the backseat and lounged out, grumbling in pain to a massive hangover headache.

Brock lovingly kissed Syra on the head and closed the driver's side door. This surprised her. "What? You don't want to drive?"

The agent got in the backseat behind her and closed the door wearing a smile. "Nope. I trust you. Besides, you know this shithole city better than I do. I know there's an IHOP around here somewhere. I just don't remember where."

Somewhere in the mix of emotional pain, a giggle found its way out of Syra. "Yeah. It's just a few blocks from here."

As the four people ate, Rollins noticed more and more quirks about the cadet that reminded him of Lise. She scraped her hash browns onto a separate plate and spiraled ketchup from the center outwards on them. She also ate her toast jelly side down, which Lise did because it let her taste more of the jelly and less of the bread. He frowned to himself and finished cleaning his plate of its stacks of pancakes, and two pieces of sausage.

* * *

It was nine-fifteen in the morning by the time the three STRIKE agents were finally heading back to D.C. Brock watched Syra's apartment complex become smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror just as she stood on the sidewalk watching him drive off. Something told the both of them, that wasn't the last they would see of the other.


	19. Doubt and Bloodstains

**18 – Doubt and Bloodstains**

Ahead was the office of the secretary of the World Security Council. Brock knew he was expected and strode through the double doors like he owned the place. Seated behind his black desk was the secretary himself, Alexander Pierce. The HYDRA figurehead lifted his focus off an opened file on his desk and to the approaching agent. Brock took a seat in one of the expensive black leather chairs before the desk and gazed intently at the much older man.

Pierce bit out a sour smile. "Agent Rumlow. I see you got my summons." The agent remained silent. "How does it feel being back in the field and not at the academy?"

What the hell kind of a stupid question was that? "It feels damned incredible, sir."

"Good. Good." Pierce closed the file laying out in front of him and pushed it aside. He then leaned back in his chair and rested his folded hands across his stomach. "Fury plans to keep close tabs on you and your men. I advise minding your Ps and Qs for the time being to evade his unwanted attention any further."

"What about the Turk? Are we going to follow through with tracking him down, or leave it for someone else to clean up?"

Pierce slyly smirked at the persistent STRIKE lead. "You're inquiring about the girl's involvement. That's the whole reason why you wanted to pursue the Turk, correct?"

Brock sat more upright in the chair. "Following through with this mission will secure HYDRA a spot in her good graces."

"That would require a lot of paperwork, careful planning and a hell of a bullshit cover-up case to execute all for one girl, Agent." A flicker of anger passed through Brock's eyes for a brief moment. It was a long enough moment for the keen-eyed councilman to notice. "Her loyalty to our cause, at this point, is in question. Arranging this under the table mission will only be doing her a favor by letting her get her revenge. What's to say she won't get cold feet working for HYDRA and try to defect after she gets what she wants?"

"That's not how she works, sir. I've spent plenty of time with her to know this."

"Oh, I know," Pierce interrupted sternly. "I've already received plenty of reports from Davis and Fredricks about your interactions with the cadet." That flicker of anger returned, this time more prominent. "I sent an agent to the area to do her own investigating and what she informed me of was, well, all I needed to know." Pierce reached for the file on the side of his desk and slid it forward for the agent to look at.

Brock's expression hardened and he reached for the folder to see what lied within for himself. He opened it to see three pictures paperclipped together inside. One was of him and Syra walking out of her apartment holding hands. The second was them sharing a kiss outside her apartment when he dropped her off. Brock knew the pictures were taken on the day he was to return back to D.C. He remembered the old lady walking two small dogs around outside an apartment unit. That wasn't an old lady, that was a fucking spy sent by Pierce.

Brock preferred to not see anymore and closed the file. He threw it back on Pierce's desk and scowled. "You sent someone to spy on me."

Pierce shrugged. "I needed to know for myself what the situation was. Were you thinking as a HYDRA operative or as some twitterpated schoolboy?"

"Cadet Jensen has given me no reason to not trust her. I gave her plenty of opportunities to tell someone of my team and I's involvement with HYDRA when my back was turned. I even bugged my truck to see if she would run her mouth when I let her drive it. I monitored her phone calls on her cell phone multiple times when she was asleep, too." Brock saw Pierce's eye twitch in annoyance. "She's clean…so far. You of all people should know I don't trust just anyone."

If this particular man wasn't one of his best, Pierce would send him off on a bullshit assignment with no return. He knew plenty of HYDRA operatives throughout the world with itchy trigger fingers ready to dispatch those with questionable loyalties. Alas, Rumlow was one of the most loyal and someone Pierce trusted above most others.

The councilman sat upright and placed his folded hands on his desk in front of him. "You do realize her _husband_ was one of the most effective SHIELD agents out there before his retirement?"

" _Dead_ …husband," Brock reminded. "And I'm not so sure she really loved that son of a bitch as much as people believed. It didn't take much for me to seduce her. Seems like to me a grievous widow would need more time to mourn before sleeping with someone else if they were really that _in love_."

Pierce huffed a breathless laugh. "People deal with grief in their own ways. Some turn to alcohol…some drugs. Take my daughter for example. She channels her anger, stress and even grief into arts and crafts. For your _Cadet Jensen_ it's burying her sorrows in another man. You were just a convenient fallback, Agent Rumlow. Nothing more." Pierce hoped he could get that damned woman out of his agent's head.

Funny the councilman should say that. One thing Rumlow remembered hearing in Syra and Rollins' conversation in his bugged truck was something similar. Rollins called her a convenient piece of ass to which she corrected him about. She wasn't just a convenience for him, just as he wasn't for her. Whether or not she did take the opportunity to bury her sorrows in him was something he wasn't worried about. He enjoyed it. The many scratches along his back he still bore under his shirt was a reminder of that.

Brock continued. "Jensen can be a valued asset to HYDRA, Mr. Secretary. She may not be the next Agent Romanov or Agent Hill, but she still has a lot of potential. Jensen's young…she's very much impressionable. As the rest of her fellow cadets and some academy instructors shit doubt on her, HYDRA can be there to encourage and support her. She's like a fresh piece of clay we can sculpt, sir."

"Is that why you're sculpting her to be your pocket pussy, Agent Rumlow?" The muscles in Brock's arm jolted with the sudden urge to punch the older man in the face. The more Pierce saw the agent react to his words, the more it fueled the councilman to push that button. "She's your liability. Should she fail HYDRA, the punishment will fall on the both of you…and I would hate to see something happen to one of my best men." Pierce stood up. "I'll see what I can do about forming a team to find the Turk." Brock did the same, knowing he was about to be dismissed. "In the meantime, I'm keeping my eyes and ears assigned near her apartment on location."

"Understood."

"You will not inform the Cadet of this. Do I make myself clear?" The look in the councilman's grey eyes enforced this.

"Perfectly, sir."

Pierce knew he had the agent by the balls and enjoyed the sense of empowerment it gave him. Agent Brock Rumlow was no man to fuck with, this much was known by anyone both in SHIELD and HYDRA. "You're dismissed, Agent. Have your men on standby for mission orders in the next few days."

Brock nodded and left the office.

* * *

The next two days were long, boring and full of mandatory refresher classes on following proper procedures. Brock hated it. Clark hated it. Rollins hated it. There were five other agents from different divisions having to endure the same thing. It was a question of what orders they disobeyed, considering two of them appeared to be desk jockeys who hadn't seen any outside air aside from walking to and from their cars.

Then came the much-dreaded talk with Director Fury STRIKE hoped they had narrowly avoided since arriving back. No such luck. The one-eyed son of a bitch had a novel of issues with each of the agents, all were things STRIKE had heard. Brock was at least relieved to know the agency figurehead didn't know about Cadet Jensen's second offense at fraternization. The topic was something that made him nervous. His career was at risk should anyone find out. Was this how Syra and Agent Jensen felt? How they lived for the time they were together? He could only imagine how she felt in those minutes…hours…days following the big reveal of her tremendous offense based off how he felt. He was fucking terrified! He needed to not only watch himself around Fury, around Pierce as well.

A thought occurred to Brock. Mother fucking karma. One of his plans to entrap Cadet Jensen into following HYDRA was to blackmail her. He wouldn't rat her out for being involved in the mission with the Turk if she didn't go mouthing off about STRIKE being HYDRA. Now he found himself in a similar situation. Maybe. If he didn't do as Secretary Pierce instructed, would Pierce throw him to the wolves by making public his fraternization with Syra? No doubt that would end his career. Pierce had the time-stamped pictures of him and Syra sharing intimate moments only days after Agent Jensen's death and after her dishonorable agency discharge was dismissed.

Pierce was already out for Syra's head, it seemed. It was up to Brock to try and protect her as he had been doing in his own ways. Whether it was directly, like arguing with Davis and Pierce to spare her after the town square incident, or indirectly, like attempting to make her stronger, he wanted to protect her.

He never should have allowed her to leave the academy while responding to the town square emergency. Not falling prey to those green eyes would have prevented so many issues before they started. No one would have found out she and Jensen were married with her emotional breakdown. With that, he wouldn't have had to argue her dishonorable discharge pardon. Not arguing for her would've kept his interest in her off the radar. No radar meant his balls not being in Pierce's figurative vice.

Brock wanted to beat his own ass at that moment. If only there were a way to reverse time and undo his fucked-up mistakes. But nothing like that existed.

* * *

Lunchtime finally arrived. Brock went to his truck to at least get away from the SHIELD hotheads that circled STRIKE like vultures. Behind him was Rollins. Clark had made other arrangements for lunch, like meeting his niece for lunch at her school. It was something he tried to do when in the area.

The STRIKE leader heavily sat in the driver's seat and looked up at his visor. Fuck. That's right. He took Syra's picture down and stashed it in the center console. With one hand, he dialed the cadet and with his other, fished out her picture.

Five rings later, she answered. "Hello?"

Brock subconsciously smiled at the sound of her voice. "Hey, babe. I didn't get you at a bad time, did I?" He mentally imaged her lying in bed, nursing her shoulder since still on medical leave.

"No. I'm just watching some TV…bored, mostly. How have you been? I haven't heard from you in a couple of days."

"It's been. A whole lot of nothing. Just doing some refresher classes. They're protocol when agents fuck up, so be ready for that when you're in the field."

Syra giggled. "Who did you piss off now?"

"Who haven't I pissed off?" Brock wished he was there to hold her. "How have you been?"

"Things have slowed down quite a bit since you've been gone." Brock could hear her sniff back a quiet sob. "It's a whole lot of sitting around and thinking. I don't like it. It just reminds me how lonely I am." Another sob. "I'm sorry, I'll stop. I know you don't like that soapy shit."

"No, no it's fine." Brock could care less about Rollins sighing impatiently in the passenger seat. "What's going on? C'mon, talk to me."

"Everyone I who gets close to me dies. My parents…grandparents…Mikel. I've been thinking about us. I think we should-"

"Stop right there," Brock interrupted. "I'm not going anywhere, so stop talking like that."

"Brock, I can't do this right now. I can't do us. I'm finally able to mourn Mikel, and…it doesn't feel right crying for him when _us_ is hanging over my head. I felt so fucked up yesterday at his funeral. I just need some time to work through this, is all."

Hearing her talk was crushing him. Perhaps Pierce was right. He was just a convenient fallback. Nothing more. Since he was back in D.C. and her hundreds of miles away, he was out of sight out of mind for her. If only it were that easy for him.

The minutes' long silence seemed to drag on forever before Syra continued. "Were you serious about not going anywhere? Or were you saying that to tell me what I want to hear?"

Brock chuckled. "I've been honest with you since the first day."

"Why start now…right?"

"Yeah…why start now?" The picture was stashed back into the center console. Rollins furrowed his brow at this. "I've got to get going. I don't have much time for lunch before I have to get back to the refresher classes."

"Oh, okay. Take it easy, okay?"

"You, too." Brock hung up the phone and threw it into a cup holder between the front seats.

Rollins carefully studied his team leader. "What's with dumping the picture?"

The truck was started up and driven out of the parking garage. "It's not exactly something I can have laying around for everyone to see."

Down the long stretch of bridge Brock drove, trying his best to ignore a motorcycle driving down the opposite lane. Fuck Steve Rogers. Rollins had the same thought before he resumed the conversation topic. "You sure it's not because she dumped you?"

Brock flexed his grip on his steering wheel and stick shift. "She didn't dump me, man. She's got issues, is all. Let her cry her tears. Hopefully, she'll get over that piece of shit Jensen soon."

Rollins scoffed. "She dumped you."

The STRIKE leader shook his head at his teammate. "Fuck you."

* * *

A week came and went with not much happening for Syra. She set up Mikel's AS50 and readied for target practice. She wondered if and when SHIELD, or HYDRA for that matter, was going to assign her a new instructor. Were they hesitant because of her history of fraternization? Fredricks was trying to pick up where Mikel left off, his approach at instructing her different. Mikel was more aggressive whereas Fredricks was lenient.

Every time she peered through the scope to take aim, the memory of her first kill resurfaced. At least it wasn't the Winter Soldier mentally taunting her, anymore. She fired a shot at her target. A dead center bullseye. Another shot made, this one hitting less than a centimeter shy of the first shot. Each shot made tore through her healing shoulder.

Fredricks stood over her with his high-powered binoculars. Whatever it was the downtown event did to her, it awoke something deadly inside her. She was more accurate with her shots.

After class, Fredricks ushered the young cadet to his office located in the upstairs of the range's beige brick building. He smiled at her and withdrew a clothes box, wrapped in newspaper, from behind his grey metal desk. "It took some pulling strings, but… I was able to get this back for you."

Syra accepted the wrapped parcel and carefully tore away the makeshift wrapping. "What is it?"

She pulled off the lid to see it was a black hoodie. When she held it up and unfolded it, she was able to see it was _the_ grim reaper black hoodie she tried to save Mikel with. It was surprisingly clean on the front. She flipped it over to look at the back. The young woman instantly regretted it. The picture on the back was still bloodstained in certain parts. Part of the skull face was stained as was a skeletal hand and a portion of the scythe's blade. It made the grim reaper look like he had just slashed someone with his signature scythe.

Fredricks struggled to explain. "I tried to wash it the best I could. While the, um…blood stains were easy to wash out of the fabric, it wasn't so much from the picture. I tried, though. I did." He watched the woman analyze the blood stains with her eyes and a fingertip. "It took four washings to get it as clean as it is now. By washings I mean I soaked it in water and detergent for a few hours."

Syra didn't say anything. The look she gave Fredricks, however, sent a cold chill down his spine. She put the hoodie on, re-shouldered Mikel's rifle and went back downstairs.

The other cadets busy disassembling their issued firearms fell silent at the sight of the woman. It wasn't just that the hood cast a shadow over her face. There was something different and darker in her eyes that wasn't there before. No one dared look at Syra while she faced them. The moment her back was turned, however, the horrific image of the bloodied grim reaper struck fear in them. Was…was that her instructor's blood staining the image?

She checked in her rifle for storage at the range armory and left. Even after she was gone, the haunting chill in the building's air remained. Syra strode to the Buell motorcycle parked in the cadet parking lot and slid the helmet off the handlebar. She put it on, started the motorcycle and drove away from the academy.


	20. The First Missions

**19 – The First Mission**

She better not have dumped him for good! Brock continued pummeling a punching bag with knuckles wrapped tight, and unaware how long he had been at it. His sleeveless grey shirt was soaked with sweat as was his unruly hair and the rest of his body. He thought nothing of it. He also thought nothing of the burn in his arms from his extensive workout. It wasn't until he called it quits for the day that he registered how exhausted his body was.

Brock returned to his gym bag on a bench and checked the time on his wristwatch laying on his towel. He had been assaulting the punching bag for three and a half hours straight. Wow. He usually only worked out in two-hour increments. Today was different. Why? What made today so different? Then he remembered his phone conversation with Syra earlier. That bitch better not have dumped him for good.

* * *

The next morning, Brock was up before sunrise and running his routine circuit around the neighborhood and nearby park. He did this for three laps before returning home to wash up and get ready to report in for duty. If she fucking dumped him for good… After all he did and was willing to do for her…

An hour and fifteen minutes later, the STRIKE agent arrived to the Triskelion parking garage. He parked near where he normally did on the second level and strode towards the elevator doors to start his day. He wasn't even there for thirty minutes when STRIKE was called to assemble in the briefing room for an upcoming mission. Hopefully, this was the mission he had been waiting for to kick off the manhunt for the Turk. Brock was antsy to get out there and do some _real_ field work!

In ten minutes, STRIKE was gathered in the briefing room. Pierce walked in and took a place at the front, behind a podium. "I'm sure everyone here has already heard of the big fiasco that took place approximately two weeks ago involving a Turkish mercenary holding several civilians hostage. One of those hostages was a senator's daughter. Luckily, _most_ of the hostages were rescued unharmed. As for the Turk," Pierce's gaze lingered on Rumlow, "he got away after blasting a hole in a restaurant floor and using the city sewers as an escape route." He picked up a remote and turned on a series of big screens behind him. "For the past week, I've had an agent in the field tracking down a series of connections the Turk has had associations with in the past year. Out of three possible contacts, my agent was able to track down one of them." Pierce used the touch screen to bring up a picture of a man in his late forties with black hair and a face full of a matching beard. "He's an Egyptian by the name of Abuskhau Eldessouky. He has done many weapons deals throughout Africa, the Middle East, and surrounding Mediterranean areas. His most notable business is with the Turk. What STRIKE is going to do is find and detain the target. Question him…use whatever means necessary to gather information on the Turk's possible location."

A young male STRIKE agent seated towards the back nervously cleared his throat and stood up. "Excuse me, sir…this might sound like a dumb question, but… why is STRIKE being sent to detain and question a suspected target? Isn't that a job for an undercover field team?"

Brock turned around to see who it was asking stupid questions rather than taking orders from a superior to see the newest addition to STRIKE. He was a year out of the academy and barely twenty-five years old. Olsen was his name. The only reason he was assigned to STRIKE was because of politics. His family had deep ties with HYDRA which made him Brock's problem.

Olsen continued. "We respond to international emergencies like hostage situations or-"

Pierce interrupted. "It was STRIKE who let the Turkish son of a bitch escape capture. It's STRIKE who's going to clean up this mess before there are any other emergencies."

Brock was going to have a little one on one talk with Olsen to straighten him out. That is if Rollins didn't beat him to it. Maybe even Clark. The death stare Olsen was getting from Clark was evident enough the younger agent wasn't liked.

The meeting concluded with the details STRIKE needed to begin their mission. They were to get their equipment and report to Quinjet pad twelve to fly out for Gaborone in Botswana, Africa. Once there, they were to meet up with Pierce's undercover informant, Agent Raquel Adams. This was a reunion Brock wasn't looking forward to. Roughly a year ago, he and 'Raq' had an on and off fling for several months before she was whisked away on several foreign undercover missions. He eventually stopped trying to get in contact with her when she stopped returning his phone calls. It seemed like to him, she lost interest. Rumor had it, she reported back to D.C. in between missions late last year, but she never called him or let him know she was in the area in case he wanted to meet up.

The STRIKE leader shook Raq out his head. She was in the past and his mission was all he needed to think about. As he strode towards the equipment storage for issue, he kept his tempered gaze settled squarely on Olsen. Behind him were his best men with much the same thought as their team leader. The group of eight men proceeded into the equipment issue room, but before Olsen could get very far, he was stopped by a strong force jerking him by the back of his shirt collar.

Olsen was thrown against a wall with an oomph and his arm bent painfully behind him. No matter how he struggled, it was no use. He was firmly pinned against the wall with his face painfully pressed into the cool painted brick.

Rumlow's voice snarled into his ear. "Let's get one thing straight, you spoiled little shit. You don't question the orders you're given. You just nod that pretty boy head of yours and say 'yes, sir.' Got it?"

Olsen squirmed uncomfortably. "You mean to tell me you bought that bullshit excuse Mr. Pierce said? You're not the least bit curious why STRIKE is _really_ being sent on a bitch boy mission?"

"No…I'm not. Why? Because I don't question orders." Brock further twisted Olsen's arm and pushed his body weight into it to stress his point. He sneered, a little, when he heard the much younger agent whimper. "I do as I'm told by my superiors. It's called a chain of command for a reason. I suggest you _learn that_ if you're wanting to continue working under _my lead_!" Olsen nodded. "I didn't hear you."

"Yes, sir."

"Gooood," Brock purred into Olsen's ear. He released the other man's arm and patted him on the back of his head. "Now get your gear and have your ass ready at jet twelve for wheels up in twenty." He left the younger agent where he stood, trembling against the wall, and strode to the equipment cage.

Clark snickered. "I think Olsen pissed himself."

"Not my problem," rebuked Brock. "He needs to grow the fuck up. I'm not going to pamper him. I'm not his millionaire daddy." The three agents were issued their body protective equipment, Glock 19 pistols, and M4A1 assault rifles. Brock had just finished securing the last of his extra magazines to his web belt in his hand when Clark cracked a smile. The smile hadn't gone unnoticed and was questioned. "Mind sharing with the rest of the class what's so funny?"

Clark slung his bag of issued equipment over his shoulder and tried not to laugh out loud. "Yo, man, what's this about your girl dumping you?"

Brock stared in disbelief at the brick wall of a black man. "Seriously? Are you _just now_ hearing about that?" He shook his head and shoved his protective body gear back in its bag. It was better to make sure everything was serviceable before he left should something be damaged. "That was last week's news, Mitch. Get with the times."

Clark heard the disheartened tone in his leader and friend's voice. "Hey, look I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's whatever. Get your shit and let's go."

Clark followed behind, still asking questions. "If Jensen is done and over with, then why in the hell are we still going after the Turk?"

"Didn't you hear Pierce? It was STRIKE who fucked up and let him escape. It's STRIKE who's going to find him and bring him to justice."

Rollins caught up with the two with his equipment bag over one shoulder, and his issued rifle slung over another. All it took was one hardened glare from him aimed at Olsen to send the other scampering away. He tended to have that effect on people and couldn't deny some enjoyment from it.

* * *

In thirty minute's time, Quinjet twelve was flying over the Atlantic Ocean towards Gaborone, Botswana. It was a long flight that had many STRIKE agents asleep in the back within their seat restraints midway through. Brock was the only one unable to sleep. He sat there, mind a whirl and body tingling with the ever growing urge to physically lash out at anyone stupid enough to cross his path. How one girl had him so messed up in the head was beyond him. Women came, women went. They were just a convenient lay and nothing else. There were no emotional or affectionate ties to them and were discarded as easily as the sun came up. Except for Winslow. Despite his emotionless exterior, he was distraught inside, much like now.

Fellow STRIKE agents and those he regularly worked with saw one side of him, but who he was inside tended to be different. He was just a human being and humans had needs, too, that couldn't be fulfilled with routine bouts of drunken nights.

* * *

By the time the Quinjet touched down fifteen miles outside of Gaborone, it was nightfall. STRIKE geared up and readied for touchdown. A beat down military cargo truck was on sight to pick them up and drive them closer to the city. The redheaded Agent Raquel Adams was in the passenger seat. The moment she saw Rumlow, her professional demeanor quickly changed to visually irked.

Acid filled her dark brown eyes and laced her otherwise sweet voice. "Gentlemen…"

Brock squared his gaze down on the woman in equal dissatisfaction. "Agent Adams…"

"I see SHIELD scraped the bottom of the barrel to have you lead this mission."

The STRIKE leader smirked. "Just cut the shit, Raq, and spill the details. Time is ticking, and I want that son of a bitch Eldessouky in my hands before sunrise. I have plans for him and anyone else who tries to piss me off." The last part was meant as a warning for the female agent in hopes of her heeding his warming.

Adams sneered. "Fine. Get in the truck, and I'll explain the details on the road."

The STRIKE team got into the truck, followed by Adams. She sat across the covered truck bed from Brock and smiled innocently. "Before I tell you my details, how about you share me yours?" The man didn't answer. "Like why STRIKE is here. This isn't the kind of mission STRIKE would respond to…which leaves me to think you either pissed off the wrong person and got stuck with this shitty detail or there's more to this mission then I'm being told."

"You just worry about your mission's details. Raq, and I'll worry about STRIKE's." Brock wasn't ashamed of the level of impatience and frustration in his voice. He was either irritated at her constant questioning or the fact he had already obligated himself to a series of missions for a girl that dumped him. And after all he had done and was willing to do for her. Fucking bitch.

The truck stopped a mile from the outskirts of town for Adams and STRIKE to unload. From there, they stayed in the shadows as they trekked through yards and houses for another quarter of a mile until they reached a shed of a pub where Adams suspected Eldessouky of being. There were a few places he frequented, the pub being his favorite.

STRIKE lowered to the ground behind a dilapidated building. Brock proceeded to give his team orders. "I want four teams of two to surround each wall of the pub. Rollins and Adams with me taking the front. Clark and Reed take the rear." Clark nodded, and he and a stocky built bald-headed man moved into position. "Lorne and Brody take the right side." The human tank of a man, Lorne, along with the second black man Brody, turned around to move into position around a nearby building. "Langston and Olsen," Brock continued as he looked at Olsen and a tall brown haired man, "take the left." He watched his men get into their assigned positions and did the same.

Brock duck walked with Rollins and Adams to the edge of a three and a half feet high fence and peered through a gap in the wooden planks. He could see Eldessouky through the pub shack's opened front door with four men seated around him at a roundtable. It appeared they were playing a card game. They were heard cheering and laughing and seen drinking mugs of what Brock could only guess was beer. On their hips were pistols and hanging off the backs of their chairs were assault rifles.

Brock whispered into his earpiece for his team to hear. "Five armed men total inside. One is our target. Do not shoot. Clark, hold your position and wait should the target try to escape through the back. Lorne, watch your side should the target try to escape through the window on the right. Langston, same for you on the left." The addressed men promptly answered in acknowledgment. "I've got the target to Eldnessouky's left. Rollins, you target the right. Brody, target the second to Eldessouky's right. Langston get the second to the left." Brock and Rollins took aim with their M4A1s through fence planks as Brody moved through the shadows to a parked car to aim over its hood and into an open window. Langston scurried to the side of the building with his rifle ready to aim and fire at his target. "STRIKE in position?"

"Copy," was simultaneously given in reply from all team members.

"On my mark…" Brock ignored Adams trying to get his attention. "Three…two… _one_!"

As though a machine of many parts moving as one, the armed agents fired on their targets. In less than two seconds, the four armed men seated around Eldessouky were shot in the head, their lifeless bodies falling to the floor. Eldessouky quickly realized he was under attack and threw himself to the floor now littered with bloodied bodies and playing cards. He jerked his pistol out of his holster and started emptying the clip towards the fence line. Adams took aim at the man, but Rollins stopped her. He kicked one of her feet out from under her kneeling form that sent her falling to the ground just as she fired a shot into the air. Brock wasn't faltered by the enemy fire hitting the fence very close to where he was and took aim at one of Eldessouky's hands. One shot severed a finger and disarmed the man of the rifle.

Eldessouky yelled out in pain and cradled his hand to his chest. He scrambled to his feet and charged through the pub's back door. Brock ordered, "He's escaping through the back!"

"On it!" Clark answered.

Brock and Rollins rushed into the building to make sure the downed men were no other men planning to fight back with rifle fire. Meanwhile, Clark ran at full speed from his hiding spot and right into the fleeing Eldessouky. The terrorist landed harshly on the unforgiving ground with Clark on top of him. Any air he had his lungs was knocked out, and he left in a daze. One hard punch along the jaw rendered him unconscious.

Clark flipped the limp man onto his stomach and zip tied his wrists tightly together as the rest of the team grouped back up.

Adams was shocked and stared at Brock with disbelieving eyes. "Was it necessary to kill _all_ those men? We could've questioned them!"

Brock kicked Eldessouky's booted foot with his own. "My orders were to detain the target. _Him!_ And question him. Lorne," the addressed STRIKE member stepped forward, "take care of the target. We're transporting him to a secured location for interrogation."

Lorne nodded and with one hand, hoisted the unconscious form out of the dirt and threw him over a thick muscular shoulder. Brock was sure all exchange of gunfire would've drawn curious residents out of their homes. To find it hadn't was slightly surprising. Perhaps they knew it was best to remain indoors should they find themselves the victims of crossfire. This was a good thing as it allowed STRIKE to retreat back into the shadows and return to the truck.

Once back at the truck, Brock called Pierce. The moment there was an answer, he spoke. "The target is in custody."

"Good work. Get the information you need through whatever means necessary."

"Yes, sir." Brock hung up the phone and smiled wickedly to himself. He had plans on what he wanted to do for questioning, not caring whether or not it was humane.


	21. The Mongolian Mongoose

**20 – The Mongolian Mongoose**

After two days of STRIKE brutally interrogating Eldessouky with waterboarding, taser rods and turning his face into a punching bag, the four primary hideout locations to the Turk were revealed. One was in Iran, a second in Germany, a third in Ecuador and lastly, one in his own homeland. Brock relayed the information and coordinates to Pierce, who then ordered STRIKE back to D.C. and Adams to her next undercover assignment in Peru. With that, STRIKE loaded back into Quinjet Twelve and was airborne minutes later.

* * *

Morning gave way to early afternoon, the Washington, D.C. skies bright and cloudless. Quinjet Twelve touched down near the Triskelion and its passengers unloaded. Brock hadn't even finished checking in his issued equipment when a call from Secretary Pierce chimed on his cellphone. He was needed for a private meeting immediately. Not questioning the order, Brock passed his gear off to Rollins to check back in and ventured to the secretary's office.

Brock was surprised to see one other person present in the office aside from Pierce. The third man was tall and dark-complected with menacing black eyes and chiseled features. Brock recognized the individual and was curious to know what would bring an agent usually deep undercover to D.C.

Pierce gave his usual false sincere smile to the STRIKE agent. "My apologies for the suddenness of this meeting right after your arrival back, Agent Rumlow, but we have urgent business to discuss. The paperwork is underway to begin the manhunt for the Turk based off the locations you gave me over the phone.

"As such, I strongly believe your _addition_ could use some extra training to help her prepare for the mission. She hasn't yet been properly trained how to handle up close enemy combatants. What the academy has been teaching her is child's play and insufficient for what this mission will most likely require. It's why I've withdrawn Agent Temuge Arghun from the field and assigned him to better train Cadet Jensen."

Brock gawked at the agent who was better known as the Mongolian Mongoose. This man wasn't just an experienced and greatly skilled fighter, but deadly fast, too. It was how he garnered the nickname. Brock remembered sparring with him a couple of years ago and after a lengthy duel, was doing good to be able to walk afterwards. Most people didn't walk away, they crawled away or were carried away on a gurney after challenging 'Goose'. Brock gave the towering agent a nod of his head. Ooooh boy! Syra was about to be in for a _real_ treat! Oh well. She deserved it after dumping him. Hopefully there would be something left of her to take along on the mission for the Turk.

Brock looked back at Pierce. "Don't you think Goose is a bit overkill on the training? It's not like Cadet Jensen is going to be-"

Pierce quickly interrupted the agent. "We don't yet know what kind of opposition we will face the closer we get to the Turk. For all I know, he could be on a remote island in the Bahamas enjoying a Pina Colada right now with no one to protect him. At the same time, he could be surrounded by guards armed with the arsenal capable of destroying an entire city block. After what was encountered in the town square that day, he's using trained mercenaries offering maximum casualties. That girlfriend of yours isn't ready for that."

Brock crossed his arms over his chest. There was more to this arrangement than he was being told and he wanted to know why. Syra was a sniper. Brock had explained his plan for the mission to Pierce, and it made perfect sense. The cadet stay at a safe distance with a STRIKE member to watch her back as she did what she was good at. Meanwhile, he would lead STRIKE into the heat of it and take out the hostile ground forces. The only time Syra would be in the immediate hostile area was to pull the trigger on the Turk once STRIKE had him detained.

Brock decided to inquire. "That's a good spiel, Mr. Secretary. Now, what's the real reason? Anyone with excellent hand to hand combat skills could instruct Jensen."

"Like who? _You?_ " Pierce scoffed a laugh. The agent didn't verbally answer as he cut his eyes down on the figurehead. "I want to see her broken, Agent Rumlow. HYDRA doesn't tolerate weakness, and this girl is the textbook definition of weak, both physically and psychologically. You're asking me to stick my neck out for you so you can score brownie points with Jensen. It's cute you think there aren't going to be any repercussions because of. The only way I'm allowing her accompaniment on this mission is to have her earn her place on it."

Brock's gut was tight with dread for the cadet's sake. Pierce didn't want to train her, he wanted her beaten down at the hands of Goose for his own personal satisfaction. Then came the question of whether or not this was also a test for him. HYDRA didn't tolerate weakness, which was true, and Pierce thought he still had feelings for the cadet. Those presumed feelings could be perceived as a weakness. Was Goose also a way to break him of that? Too late. One simple phone call beat him to it. Or… did it? The more Brock thought about what was to happen to Syra, worry swelled in his gut. This level of worry was only brought on by feelings he kept trying to deny with himself. Fuck. No matter how much he wanted to tell himself he no longer gave a shit about that ungrateful brat, he was still crazy about her.

The STRIKE agent nodded in acceptance. He had no choice. "Fair enough. When does Cadet Jensen begin her _training_?"

Pierce deviously grinned. "Today, actually, and I want you there with me. I have a Quinjet prepped, and ready to take us to the academy Cadet Jensen is located. It's a two-hour flight, which will put us arriving there just after the cadets have been dismissed for the day. No interruptions."

She was going to be blindsided. Syra wasn't ready for anything Goose was going to deliver, and Brock had no way of alerting her to prepare. Again, the agent nodded in forced acceptance. "Yes, sir."

"And notify Agents Rollins and Clark they will be joining us, as well." Pierce knew the other two STRIKE agents had previously encountered the cadet and wanted to see if they were as sensitive about her as their team leader.

Brock could read the councilman's thoughts in his cunning grey eyes. "Yes, sir, I'll let them know."

* * *

Clark was jaw dropped, his issued protective vest dangling from his hands. He was still checking in his equipment used on the South Africa task. " _Mongoose_? But…she's a linguist sniper! _Not Agent Romanov_!"

Brock shrugged. "I have no say-so in this. Secretary Pierce has already made up his mind. Wheels up in ten." Rollins dropped off the last of the equipment for check in and walked away.

* * *

Syra checked the time on her wristwatch. She was ready for the day to be over. It was one fifty-three in the afternoon. Only an hour and a half left and the day was over as far as academics went. From there, it was range practice which she was looking forward to. She had since abandoned practicing with her M40 in exchange for Mikel's AS50 and was enjoying it a hell of a lot more. The looks she got from other cadets at the range when she set it up was priceless. By now, everyone knew everything about her; her being secretly married to her instructor, as well as her involvement with the whole downtown issue. During hand to hand combat classes, she didn't bother hiding her shoulder injury. She made sure to wear a black tank top with thinner straps to allow it to be seen. It was like a badge of honor to her, now, she wanted to be seen.

Following the story of her involvement with STRIKE during the mission spread like wildfire through the academy. Where she used to be picked on and teased for her crippling anxiety and easily triggered PTSD, she was now feared. Cadets walked on eggshells around her and gave her plenty of space. Some even tried to be friendlier towards her by inviting her out for pizza or to a movie. The kiss-assery was a nice change of pace, but not something Syra enjoyed. She couldn't deny taking some small amount of satisfaction from it the first three days she was back on campus following her medical leave, but now it was becoming annoying.

Her cell phone started to vibrate within her khaki pants pocket. She carefully slid it out as to avoid drawing attention to herself, since cell phones were required to be shut off in class, and checked the number. Unknown caller. Syra dismissed the call and put it back in her pocket. It was probably a solicitor. Ten seconds later it vibrated again. It was the unknown caller. Usually, solicitors weren't this aggressive in spamming calls. If one number didn't answer, they would just move on to the next and come back to the unanswered ones later. This had to be something different. Was it Rumlow? He was the only person she could think of that would attempt calling her.

She pressed talk and slipped the phone into the sleeve of her navy-blue sweater. She whispered, "One minute," into her sleeve and raised her hand like a kindergartener. Syra gave some bullshit reason for an excuse to the bathroom and quickly fled the classroom and down the hall to the ladies room. She checked the stalls to make sure she was alone and slipped the phone out of her sleeve. "You still there?"

"I don't have much time, so you need to listen carefully." The male voice wasn't Agent Rumlow's. She had heard this man's voice before but wasn't sure from where. "In approximately two hours, a Quinjet carrying the World Defense Council Secretary, Alexander Pierce, will arrive at the academy. With him will be an agent assigned to instruct you in private hand to hand combat lessons. He's dangerous and merciless." Syra was getting more and more nervous each word the familiar voice spoke. "He's going to break you under orders from Secretary Pierce. Show no weakness." Syra closed her eyes in nauseating dismay. "Agent Rumlow will be there, too, but not because he wants to. It's suspected Pierce wants to _make_ him watch as a test."

"A test? What kind of test?" The cadet wasn't aware she was crying until tears streamed from her cheeks. "Why are you telling me this? Who are you?"

"Consider yourself warned. Good luck." The call was ended, and Syra left standing in the bathroom stall with more questions than answers. Where the hell had he heard that voice?

Syra returned to class, obviously shaken up about something, and did her best to push through the rest of the day.

* * *

Come the end of the day, the cadets were dismissed for the day. The young brunette's feet felt like weights as she trudged through the hallways and towards the front doors. She hadn't even made to the doors when she saw Davis approaching her from the corner of her eye.

He called to her, stopping her mid-stride. "Ah, Cadet Jensen. Just who I was looking for. May I speak with you in private?" Syra nodded and reluctantly followed Davis into his office, and the door was shut behind them. "I have good news! A replacement hand to hand combat instructor has been assigned to pick up where Jensen's instructions left off." Syra felt a surge of bile rush to the back of her throat. Just as the mysterious caller warned her about. "Your new instructor will be arriving, here, in just a few minutes. Since HYDRA has taken a high interest in your abilities and sees _a lot_ of potential in you, they have decided to amp up your training. They're grooming you for more vigorous missions like the downtown incident." Syra could hear past the sugar-laced bullshit she was being told. She didn't want to draw suspicions to herself for knowing about her new instructor ahead of time and perked up. Davis lowered his brow and slimmed his eyes down on the cadet curiously. "Is…everything all right, Cadet?"

Syra nodded and pressed out a weak attempt at a smile. "Yes, sir. You just mentioned the downtown incident, and…it brought back memories, is all."

Weakness. The exact same weakness HYDRA was about to beat out of her. "Ah. My apologies. It wasn't my intention to disturb painful memories." He rested a hand on her injured shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. It wasn't enough to hurt, unlike what Davis really wanted. "I've already informed Mr. Fredricks you won't be present for your afternoon range practice, today." A twisted smile contorted Davis's expression. "Just sit tight for a bit. The Quinjet should be here shortly."

* * *

Davis watched the Quinjet touch down in the cadet parking lot in front of the academy. He checked the time on his watch to see it was four-o-eight in the afternoon. The back hatch opened and out emerged the councilman, the three STRIKE agents and lastly the Mongoose.

Davis welcomed Pierce with a firm handshake and led him and company into the building. The academy director briefly disappeared into this office and came back with the cadet trailing behind him.

The first person she locked gazes with was Rumlow. His placid expression and hard eyes were off-putting to the woman. If she didn't know any better from her mysterious informant beforehand, she would've thought he didn't care about her anymore. Clark's expression was much the same; void of empathy. The massive form of a dark-skinned man standing well above the others stole her attention. She judged his height to be somewhere between six feet three inches to six feet five inches in comparison to Rumlow's five feet ten inches. Her informant didn't tell her to prepare for _this_! Here, she imagined someone like Rumlow instructing her. _Not the Asian Hulk!_

Syra was failing at keeping her composed baring. She looked to Rollins, _just knowing_ she would see _something_ of a smile on his face at her dilemma. Then it hit her. Suddenly she knew why the voice was so familiar. It was Rollins who called her and warned her about this. But, why him? Did Rumlow threaten him or blackmail him with something if he didn't? The thought of him calling her on his own accord seemed hugely out of character for him. She already knew Rumlow was being tested for his ability to separate personal from professional at Secretary Pierce's discretion. It would only make sense for Rumlow to have someone call her the secretary wouldn't suspect of doing so.

Green eyes centered down on cold grey ones. His false smile was misleading and venomous. "Cadet Jensen," he stated. "I finally get the honor of meeting you face to face. Director Davis has told me so much about you. After reading STRIKE's report about your participation in the events a couple of weekends ago, I must say...I'm quite impressed."

Syra nervously smiled. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm sure Director Davis informed you of the reason for my visit?"

Syra almost blurted out something that would've resulted in an epic ass beating right there on the spot but refrained. Something about the answer 'to break me into a bloody pulp' didn't seem like a correct response at that moment. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent!" Pierce smiled at the nerve-wracked young woman. Why the fuck Rumlow picked her out of all the other potential HYDRA prospects to stick his dick in was beyond him.

Davis led the group of people to the academy's gym, where they gathered around a series of training mats. When no was looking, Brock's fingers brushed against the cadet's in a blink of the eye show of affection. At first, Syra thought it was an accident until she saw the apologetic look in his eyes. As quickly as it happened, it was over. It didn't mean she couldn't hold onto the moment, though.

Pierce continued. "Cadet Jensen, I want you to meet your new instructor…courtesy of HYDRA, Agent Temuge Arghun. Better known as the Mongolian Mongoose." The smile on the much older man sent a shiver down Syra's spine. "You'll find out why that is real soon. Get prepped and do whatever it is you need to ready yourself for your first lesson in five."

Syra nodded and went to the ladies' locker room to change into her gym clothes.

Pierce carefully studied Rumlow for any hint or sign suggesting emotional weakness. He was pleased to see there wasn't any, for now, but strongly felt that would change once Mongoose began his 'lesson.' He would keep a close eye on the agent for any changes, regardless.

Pierce shifted where he stood just enough to look at Mongoose. "Break her. I want her bleeding at my feet. I don't care if she's crying or begging for you to stop. Show no mercy."

The Mongoose nodded in oblige.

Syra came back out into the gym and took a spot on the mat near the group. She felt so small compared to the Mongolian agent. She could see her life flash before her eyes in the dark and emotionless ones of the man. This was going to hurt.


	22. Bruised but Not Broken

**21 – Bruised But Not Broken**

To the training mat, Cadet Jensen fell with blood, snot and drool streaking her lower face. An excruciating split tore through her upper and lower lips that was definitely going to require stitches and quite possibly leave a scar. Her left eye was also nearly swollen shut from a bruising gash high up on her cheekbone.

Mongoose bent down and picked the woman up off the mat by her left shoulder in a robust grip. Syra cried out and fought the relentless hold to release her. Through her struggling, she could see the maniacal smirk on Pierce's face as well as the unmoving expression on Rumlow's. At the same time, Rollins was staring daggers into her from over Pierce's shoulder. That was when Syra remembered what he told her over the phone; do not show any weakness. The next thing she recalled was Mikel's advice and training over the course of the year and a half he instructed her.

Syra steeled herself and kicked a foot back behind her with everything she could. She struck the Mongoose in the shin with enough force that his grasp on her shoulder faltered a little. It was enough to allow her to grab onto his strong wrist with both hands and spin around to face him. She twisted his arm in a compromising way and landed a sharp knee to his ribs. Mongoose grabbed her by the waist and one of her legs and hoisted her up over his head. How he threw her back onto the training mat left Syra dazed and lost for breath. So this is what being a discarded rag doll was like. Any attempts to push herself back up only sent her back to the floor. Her left shoulder and arm refused to cooperate. It was as though the bones in her arm had been ripped out and felt that way, too.

A flash of movement caught the corner of her eye and regardless of how weak she felt, had to act quickly to avoid getting stomped on. The cadet rolled away and flipped back up on her feet. She dodged this way and that to avoid the Mongoose to no avail. Damn was he fast! Another blow to the face sent her back to the floor. She laid there, unable to move or even think.

Pierce beamed in self-exuberance and rolled his observation to the STRIKE leader at his left. Brock stood motionless with hands on his hips. His brown eyes were cold, and lips thinned over a tight jaw. This was a usual look for him, and Pierce was content with the reaction. The agent hadn't twitched or even blinked since Mongoose started his 'lesson.'

Syra could see the blurry forms of the men standing nearby. One dark clothed form stood out the most. It was heartbreaking to watch that form turn and walk away. She already knew Rumlow was in a tight spot according to what Rollins told her. This just added on to the fact that their relationship wasn't going to be a conventional one. As if anything in her life was ever easy, to begin with.

Mongoose stood over her with blood smeared fists clenched at his sides. He bent down to pick her up and resume his beatings when Pierce stopped him. "That's enough…for now."

Syra watched the blur of Rumlow's form become smaller as she fought against unconsciousness. She remained this way, body numb and mind a scrambled mess, as she felt herself be lifted up and carried away. To where and by who, she wasn't sure. For all she cared, it was to a shallow grave.

Brock couldn't stomach the sight of the young woman anymore and walked away. Not that a bloodied and swollen face bothered him. He had done the same to many people in the past, most recently Eldessouky. How the terrorist fucker's face bent and broke beneath his fist before telling everything he knew was immensely satisfying. Brock wondered if Mongoose harbored that same satisfaction after unjustifiably turning Cadet Jensen's face into raw hamburger meat.

"Agent Rumow…" Hearing Pierce call after him made the agent halt mid-step. "The Cadet's training isn't concluded for the day." Brock's already angered expression turned more so, and he turned around just enough to glare at the councilman over a shoulder. "I would like to see these promising sniper skills of hers I've read so much about in Davis's report."

Unbelievable. The cadet had just had her face rearranged courtesy of the Mongoose and Pierce wanted a sniping demonstration? It's not like he could protest the order. Brock spun on a heel and trudged back to Pierce like a dog to his master.

* * *

Something abruptly ripped Syra out of the unconsciousness she inadvertently let herself succumb to. A single green eye fluttered open as the second, now bloodshot one, refused to open through the swelling.

Brock was inches from her face with a tiny capsule of smelling salts underneath her nose. His gruff voice broke through the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Rise and shine, Princess." Syra blinked with her one good eye in an attempt to better focus on the agent. The more her vision cleared, the better able she was to see where she was. She was at the academy firing range. Brock patted her on her uninjured cheek to try and wake her up a bit more. "Time for range practice."

 _What?!_ Every part of her body ached and screamed out in pain in protest to moving. _And she was supposed to target practice?_ Syra strained to sit up. "Wha-"

Brock watched the young woman be hoisted off the ground by Mongoose, the tips of her feet barely dragging the ground as she was plopped down beside her AS50 case. He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at the frail woman.

Syra looked from her rifle case and to Pierce. Standing behind him with genuine sympathy and apology on his face was Fredricks. He encouraged her with a motion of his hands for her to do as told through suggestion. After a moment's hesitance, her black and blue knuckled hands set up the rifle as quickly and carefully as possible.

Pierce spoke. "Let's see if your sniping skills are any better than your hand to hand combat ones. If you can't be relied on to cover your teammates, whether near to far, then what good will you be on the mission for the Turk? Or to HYDRA for that matter?"

Syra tried to position herself on her stomach next to her rifle but found it difficult due to the body seizing pain in her right side. It wouldn't surprise her if she had a fractured rib or two. Even her back significantly disagreed with the positioning. She'd just have to tough it out the best she could. Like hell, she was going to look weak in front of Secretary Pierce _and_ STRIKE. No telling what Rumlow thought about her at that moment. Probably disappointment. Maybe disgust and even regret he slept with her more than once.

Brock's insides were knotted up with nerves and anger. While a part of him believed in the cadet's shooting skills, he also doubted them given her current state. The recoil from each shot she fired at the target downrange made her writhe in silent agony. He knew she was strong when she needed to be and admired this. His little Huggies was growing up to be a big girl, though he wouldn't admit this to anyone.

Eight shots were fired before Syra's capability to aim and shoot was no more. She was no longer able to clearly see the various sized targeting circles and her grip on her rifle was faltering.

Behind her, Pierce watched the cadet's shooting through Fredricks' high powered binoculars. "I've seen enough," snarled the councilman. "This is a damned embarrassment." He turned to frown irately at Rumlow. "When it comes time for the mission to take out the Turk, _your_ cadet will remain here."

Syra tried to get to her feet only to fall back to the ground. Everything around her was spinning out of control. She parted her lips to speak, but even that hurt like hell. Because of the swelling of her busted lips, her words were slurred and difficult to hear. "I will not be left behind!"

Brock's gut sunk in sickening dread to the young woman's fate. Did she not care who she was speaking so boldly to? Pierce scoffed. "You're of no use. The mission for the Turk is for agents, and those I _know_ can complete the mission. _You_ will be nothing but a damned inconvenience!"

Syra's knees shook beneath her weight as she attempted to stand up a second time. "Then let me train for it! I can do it!"

Pierce laughed in her face and walked away. "That I strongly doubt," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared around the building's corner towards the academy. Brock refused to look at the badly beaten cadet for his own sake and followed the HYDRA figurehead.

As Rollins did the same, Clark pressed out a compassionate smile to the cadet before he too turned and left. Fredricks joined Syra and supported her for fear of her passing out again. "You'll be okay, my dear. You just need some rest."

Syra looked to the Mongoose still standing against the wall and staring down at her like some offensive insect. Just when she thought the scowling physical presence job belonged to Rollins, her new hand to hand combat instructor better filled the role. She said nothing as she allowed Fredricks to help her inside the building and up the stairs to his office. She more than welcomed laying down on the old busted up couch in his office and quickly passed back out.

* * *

Brock caught up to Pierce. "So that's just it? You're not even going to give her a chance to build her endurance and strength with Goose?"

"Oh, I still plan on her continuing her lessons. The ideas of what she'll be put through are too good to pass up."

The STRIKE lead wanted to assault Pierce with a profane tangent. He knew it was of no use, though, and remained professional. "It'll take some time to find the Turk, sir, even with the locations we were given. That should allow _some_ time for Cadet Jensen to advance in her lessons and prepare for the mission."

Pierce paused in his striding toward the Quinjet to observe the agent. "It surprises me how much you are willing to fight for that girl. Other than the obvious reasons, of course…Why her?"

Brock was offended by the latter comment. " _Other_ than the _obvious_ ," he mocked back, "I believe in her. She saved not only my life but the lives of my men too."

Pierce sighed in exasperation. "You have argued that fact so much to the point the dead horse has been beaten to powder, Agent Rumlow."

The determination in the agent's brown eyes didn't change, despite the ice cold in the older man's grey ones. For the most part, Pierce trusted the agent's judgment. He couldn't help but wonder, however, if his constant pushing for the cadet was driven by lust or if he had something else in mind. Rumlow had a way of playing his pawns into a carefully planned trap. The only question was, who was the pawn in the STRIKE agent's plan?

It was more of a curiosity in Rumlow's plan that decided the councilman's mind. "She has until the Turk is found to get her shit together." Pierce turned and continued his trek towards the Quinjet. He noticed the STRIKE lead wasn't behind him any longer and stopped at the base of the Quinjet's lowered ramp. "Will you not be joining me back to D.C., Agent?"

Brock stood his ground. "I'll find my own way back to D.C… _sir_." As he walked back towards the range, he called over his shoulder. "STRIKE, you're more than welcome to accompany Secretary Pierce back to HQ."

One set of footsteps joined his, then a second. Brock glanced over his shoulders to see his two best men behind him. He wasn't surprised, so much, to see Clark. Rollins, however, was a different topic. A faint grin pulled at the corners of Brock's tense mouth.

Now, to go check on Cadet Jensen with the hope there was still something left of her to identify. Remembering how she looked, so bruised and vulnerable on the training mat of the gym, further pissed him off. "She didn't even have a chance…not against Goose."

Clark spoke up. "She's made you soft, man. I've seen you not give a flying fuck about _anyone_ …then here she comes and _BAM_! You've been made a pussy _by_ the pussy. And she dumped your ass! Why in the hell do you even still like her?" Brock groaned under his breath and shook his head. Not even he knew the answer to that question, himself. Clark could tell his team leader and friend was genuinely bothered by the recent events and knew he was never this bothered by anything. Rumlow more took pleasure in one's pain than mercy. Clark gave the other man a supportive slap on the back. "But in all seriousness, caring about someone can either make them stronger or weaker. At least you have something worth fighting for other than HYDRA's purpose. Not everyone has that. My little sister and niece are mine." He looked at Rollins. "I don't know what Jack's is." Rollins scoffed.

* * *

Cold. So cold. Syra slowly awoke to find herself in an ice bath in a dark room she didn't recognize. It looked like someone's personal bathroom if the wild west décor was anything to go by.

Rumlow's gentle and familiar voice broke through the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Easy now, babe. Not too fast. I suggest laying there for a bit."

Brock felt his chest tighten up at the young woman's appearance. The bruising around her swollen left eye stood out in contrast to her dreadfully pale complexion while butterfly band-aids acted as sutures for her gashed cheekbone and lips. That was just her face. The rest of her body looked as though she had been run over a few times with how bruised and busted up she was. There were two dark-colored sections on her back from where the Mongoose punched and kicked her. Brock personally knew this after being the one to undress her and put her in the ice bath. Then came the bruise shining brightly around her healing gunshot. He was relieved to see the stitches were gone by now, but that didn't mean the tissue around the site wasn't susceptible to reinjury.

The agent relocated his sitting down on the closed toilet lid to the side of the tub. He caressed the least injured portion of Syra's face and frowned. "I'm sorry." The words surprised him. He never really made it a practice to apologize to anyone. "I wanted to warn you, but I couldn't. Secretary Pierce was right on my ass the whole time."

Syra tried to smile. "It's fine."

Brock solemnly shook his head. "No, it's not fine. You didn't even get a heads up this was going to happen. It's bullshit Pierce blindsided you like that."

Syra's brows twitched, and she cocked her head. "Wait…you mean…you didn't tell Rollins to call me?"

Brock looked at the woman bewilderingly. " _What_? No! He called you?!" A slight nod was given in an answer. "Why would he call you?"

Syra shrugged. "I wondered the same thing. I just thought it was because you threatened him or blackmailed him to."

The agent got to his booted feet and stormed to the bathroom door. He unlocked it and stood in the doorway to yell out. "Hey Jack, what the fuck is this about you calling my girl today?"

Rollins yelled back in response from somewhere beyond the bathroom's confines. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck you, too!" Brock slammed the door and returned to sit on the side of the tub. Syra stared at him oddly. "What?"

The young woman weakly laughed and strained to sit up. "Okay, I can't take this ice bath shit anymore."

Brock helped where she would allow by helping her to her feet and drying her off. He wrapped her in the towel and embraced her ice cold, trembling body against his much warmer one. Her weak arms snaked around his waist and to lower back as she rested her forehead on his shoulder. He nuzzled his face into the wet strands of medium brown hair clinging to her neck and breathed in her natural scent. With a gentle touch, he brushed aside her hair to pepper her neck in loving kisses. He expected her to pull away or refuse his affections only to find she didn't. His featherlight kisses made their way to her jawline and to the uninjured side of her lips, where they lingered there for a long moment.

Syra's hands subconsciously squeezed the man's back as he then kissed her bruised cheek, swollen eye and finally the side of her head. His gentleness shredded her to pieces. "Why are you doing this?"

"I told you I wasn't going anywhere."

A labored sob spilled through Syra's swollen lips. Brock cradled the back of the woman's head on his shoulder and spoke into her ear with a hushed voice. "Shh, shh, it's okay." Her grip tightened around handfuls of his shirt. "I've got you, babe." Restrained cries gradually intensified into hoarse wails of raw emotion.

A subtle knock on the bathroom door was barely heard over Syra's breakdown. Fredricks questioned, "Is everything all right?" in a worried tone.

Brock kissed Syra's bare shoulder and caressed her back. "Give us a minute, will ya?"

There was a moment's silence before Fredricks answered. "Sure. Holler at me if you need anything."

Syra released her grip on Brock's shirt and lifted her head. The level of warmth and compassion in those brown eyes warmed her cold body. Brock smiled into those jade green eyes swimming in tears and got an idea. "Hey, Freddie…"

Shuffling feet returned to the bathroom door. "Yes?"

"Got any cinnamon whiskey?"

Syra huffed a laugh. "You know, trying to drink that stuff is going to hurt like hell? I can barely open my mouth, let alone take a shot."

Brock kissed the tip of the woman's pinkish nose. "That's what a straw is for."


	23. Attitude With a Fifth of Whiskey

**22 – Attitude With a Fifth of Whiskey**

As carefully as possible, Brock helped Syra get dressed in a baggy t-shirt and a pair of Fredricks' old, paint-stained sweatpants. Once the drawstring was pulled up and tied, the waist of the pants resembled a gathered skirt. Together the two walked out of the bathroom, though slowly and with Syra wincing and hissing in pain.

Fredricks was kicked back in a brick red colored recliner tucked off in the corner of the living room also decorated in a wild west theme. To the right of the recliner was a wheat colored couch adorned with a blue and white saddle blanket on the back. In front of the couch was a wooden coffee table sitting on four small wagon wheels for legs. A foot high bronze statue of a bucking horse was its centerpiece.

Across Fredricks' face was a cheesy grin. "Do you know how long it's been since I last had a woman in my pants?"

Syra gave the much older man a deadpan expression and chided back. "With jokes like that, I wonder why." Fredricks boyishly laughed and retreated to the kitchen.

Brock guided Syra to the couch where she carefully sat down and got comfortable. He looked around to see Clark across the living room in a wooden, tan cushioned chair eating pizza and Fredricks in the kitchen getting a plate from the cabinet. The STRIKE leader questioned out loud to anyone who knew the answer. "Where the fuck is Rollins?"

Clark swallowed a mouthful of pizza and answered. "He went to the liquor store down the street to get your girl a bottle." Syra blinked in utter surprise. Even Brock was speechless. "I know, right? I thought the same thing."

Fredricks returned with a dinner plate and a piece of fully loaded pizza steaming on top of it. Brock looked from it and to the man with an unamused glare on his face. "How the hell is she supposed to eat _that_ ," he pointed at the pizza, "with _this_?" He then pointed to the young woman's busted lips. Fredricks' shoulders sank in realization.

The plate was taken by the cadet anyway and parts of the pizza torn off into small pieces. "I'll manage. I'm hungry." Those were words quickly taken back the moment hot grease touched the raw gash.

Brock silently observed the young woman, doing his best to not show any hint or sign of his amusement. It was increasingly difficult the more he watched the almost childlike woman flinch and whimper with each tiny bite of pizza she tried to push through her lips. He sighed. "Would you like me to puree that for you?"

Syra was quick to give a testy reply. "Touch my food, and I'll break your fucking fingers."

Clark laughed through a mouthful of food. "Whoa, ho, ho! You gonna let her talk to you like that, boss?"

Though the STRIKE leader was statuesque in posture, the nerve endings in his body tingled with the strong desire to test Syra on just how serious she was with her threat. "Girl, if you weren't already busted up, I'd bend you over my knee and spank that attitude right out of you."

Syra matched his snarky tone. "That's a lot of spanking. Think you can last that long?"

"A lot longer than you did against Mongoose."

Clark coughed and beat his chest with a fist to clear his throat. "Holy shit," he rasped, "shots fired!"

Syra wasn't about to let him get the last word. "But not as long as you last in bed, right?"

Clark coughed louder and got up to go to the kitchen sink for a drink. "Wow. Just wow."

Brock huffed a laugh. There was nothing about this woman he would change. Never mind she got her ass kicked, she still put up a decent fight. He already knew what was going to happen to her at the hands of Mongoose, he just didn't expect her to keep going as long as she did. Then came the strength in her he helped her discover to overcome her fears. Last but not least was her witty comebacks.

She was near perfection in his eyes. "I love you," Brock blurted. He meant for the words to be playful. That's not how it came out or sounded to the others present in the nearby vicinity. He instantly started mentally kicking himself in the ass.

Syra's slight smile shifted to a skeptical frown for a moment. The words pained a deep wound in her chest trying to heal from the last time she heard those words. They were the last words Mikel spoke to her as he lay dying in her arms.

Brock saw he had upset Syra with this thoughtless blurting and wanted to apologize. Not sure how he would do that, though, without looking like a schmuck in front of Fredricks and Clark. Thank God Rollins wasn't there. Instead, Brock stayed quiet and accepted a plate of pizza Fredricks brought him.

Syra wasn't about to let resurfaced grief get the best of her. The harder she tried to fight it, the worse she did. Before she let her sadness make a floor show of her in front of the three men, she set her plate down and exited the living room through the back door.

Brock's first thought was to follow. The stern stare down and head shaking he got from Fredricks kept him rooted on the couch. "Let the girl be. It's been rough for her since the whole big fraternization reveal. She almost got expelled from the academy because a few girls harassed her to her breaking point."

Clark questioned. "Define breaking point."

Fredricks returned to his recliner and arched a brow. "She broke one girl's nose, I know that."

"Huh, …what do you know…" Clark looked to his team lead. "It looks like your girl has a pair of balls after all…that _isn't_ yours!"

Brock wasn't in a mood for his friend's poking fun. "Fuck off, Mitch."

Outside, Syra closed her eyes and buried her bruised face in her hands. The harder she cried, the more the swelling in her face throbbed. She didn't care. What was that saying? Pain was just weakness leaving the body. She needed to toughen up anyway if she was to endure more lessons from her new hand to hand combat instructor. The fact that foreign wall of lightning fast muscle was her instructor let her know real quick some high ranking official didn't like her. And she knew just who it was too; Secretary of the World Defense Council, Alexander Pierce. _Fucking dick._

Syra heard footsteps come up behind her and she jumped to her feet and spun around. Her right hand instantly went to her hip where her pistol would be holstered. Jade green eyes met the hazel ones of Rollins. Seeing the male agent feet shy of her position made Syra slightly worrisome. Was Rollins going to beat her ass, too? Apparently not. He removed a fifth of cinnamon whiskey out of a paper bag he had in his hand and held it out for the cadet to take.

Syra took one look at it and weakly laughed. "You know if someone worth a damn in status saw you contributing alcohol to a minor, you'd be in serious shit?" Rollins snorted and tossed the bottle at her. She caught it and opened it. "No chance you'd have a-" before she could finish her sentence, a straw was waved in her face. "Straw…" Syra took it, opened it, and shoved it into the mouth of the bottle. As the young woman took a swig, Rollins sat down in the patio chair next to her. The woman savored the flavor of the liquor and mustered the strength to attempt conversation with the intimidating agent. "Thank you…for earlier…for warning me about the incoming beating of my life."

Hazel eyes locked back onto the uninjured green one looking at him. "You did well today." The young woman parted her gashed lips to say something but stopped. "The trick with Goose…do not try to outfight him. You can't. You're far too inexperienced. Only two people have been able to put him in check, and that's Rumlow and Romanov. Just don't show him any weakness. When he knocks you down, you get right back up."

Syra shrugged. "Then he'll just knock me back to the mat."

Rollins grabbed the bottle out of Syra's hand and held the straw aside. He took a good shot's worth in his mouth and swallowed it in one gulp. "Get back up. He'll eventually ease up and give you a break. Every time you get up, he takes it as you're asking for more. That shows strength...that you don't give up easily. If you just lay there admitting defeat, he'll break your fucking face whether you're conscious or not." He took another swig and handed the bottle back to Syra.

She smirked at him and took another drink through her straw. "Why are you being nice to me? I thought you hated me…"

It took a minute for Rollins to answer. "I see how Rumlow looks at you. I watched the strongest man I know turn into putty when you were in the hospital after you were shot. He's never like that. For some reason with you…he's different." Rollins examined the darkened portions of the woman's face in the light shining from apartment parking lot and frowned. He remembered how Lise looked all those times HYDRA tried to bend her to their will. "He's taking some big risks with you. Don't fuck it up by being another manipulative little twat."

Syra glowered at the man. "Wow, Agent Rollins, your ability to flatter me with your eloquent choice of words never ceases to amaze me."

"Shut up."

Syra exchanged her sour pout for a sneer. "La, la, la, la, laaa," she sang humorously. Rollins unholstered his pistol and cocked it. The woman's joking mood didn't falter. "Laaa." She took her straw out of the bottle and handed the bottle to the man. "You need to lighten up." Rollins gladly took the offer and chugged. "Hey now, cowboy, slow it down. Save some for the rest of the class."

* * *

In two hours' time, Brock couldn't ignore the jovial laughter coming from outside anymore. Neither could Clark. Was that Rollins… _laughing?! What the fuck?_ The two STRIKE agents got up and went out to the back porch. Obviously blitzed out of her mind was Syra, hunched over in her chair and laughing her ass off. Sitting damn near shoulder to shoulder with her was Rollins, his cell phone in his hand and them watching videos of people doing stupid at home stunts. Both people were in tears and unable to breathe they were laughing so hard.

Clark was perplexed. "Did I miss the memo or something?"

Brock was at a loss for words. At least the cadet wasn't whimpering and whining from pain? He stood between the two people and tried to pull the bottle out of Syra's hand. "Okay, you kids have had enough." But Syra wasn't having it. "C'mon, babe, let go of the bottle." She giggled. "You're going to be in so much pain tomorrow between Mongoose and a hangover."

Finally, the bottle was taken away from the young woman and handed over to Clark. "Pour it out…drink it…I don't care. Just don't give it to Sy." Syra was still giggling. Brock pulled the patio chair back and lifted her to her feet. "It's bedtime for you."

Fredricks held the door open. "I have an extra room she can sleep in."

With that, Syra was carried to the spare bedroom and laid down on the bed. Her small hand grabbed his. "Stay with me… until I fall asleep…"

Brock knew it wouldn't take long, seeing how much she had to drink. He smiled down at the drunken, bruised up young woman and nodded. The thick blue, brown and cream checkered bedspread was pulled back, and the man snuggled up to the cadet from behind. He wrapped her up in his arms and softly kissed her on the neck. The man listened to her breathing gradually slow, and her heartbeat steadily beat against his arm.

Knowing she was in a deep sleep, Brock whispered into her ear. "I love you."

Manly snickers sounded from the side of the bed, near the floor. "I love you too, boo boo." It was Clark. The son of a bitch had snuck into the room.

Brock hatefully glared at the agent. "I will fucking beat your black ass white."

"And I'll beat your ass black and blue, white boy."

Fredricks called from the living room. "Now, now children. No roughhousing indoors. Take it outside."

Brock looked down at Clark looking up at him. Making sure he was careful to not wake up the drunken stupor of a woman, the STRIKE lead got out of the bed and followed Clark outside. Rollins was still outside and milking the rest of the cinnamon whiskey. Brock wasn't sure if he was going to like his best teammate tomorrow with how hung over he was going to be. When hungover in different degrees, Rollins tended to be more physically aggressive. Too many times have rookie agents pissed him off only to end up unconscious on the ground. Other times, he just slept it off any and all chance he could. Hopefully, that would be the case. Brock didn't want to have to give both his best men an ass whooping.

Lighter brown eyes cut down on the darker ones of Clark. Speaking of giving an ass whooping…

* * *

Brock stared forward at the back of the airplane seat in front of him. He sported a black left eye and a small cut in his left eyebrow. Seated next to him was Clark with similar visual injuries, except with a split top lip. He tried to adjust in his seat, wincing and groaning in pain. Other injuries couldn't be seen that made the agent regret challenging his team lead. He knew better than to do that. This was Agent fucking Rumlow. He was one of the handfuls of people that could keep up with Romanov in a sparring match. It was in good fun, though. Nothing wrong with a little manly tussle from time to time. The two men stared at each other with mutual expressions on their faces. Neither said a thing and returned their gazes forward. Snoring behind them was Rollins with his face pressed against the glass. They hadn't even left the tarmac, yet.

Clark spoke. "Did you tell your girl bye before you left?"

"Nope. She was asleep. I know better than to wake her up after a heavy night of drinking."

"What if the plane crashes and you never said your goodbyes?"

Brock slowly turned his head and glared at his teammate and friend. "You better not jinx this fucking flight, bro."

Clark shook his head. "I'm just saying, man… I've seen those movies. Everyone is all 'woohoo we're going home,'" he waved his hands in the air to mimic excitement, "then next thing you know, shits going down."

"I'm going to knock you the fuck out if you don't shut up."

Clark wasn't phased by the threat. "An engine blows out…fucking terrorists…the pilots are dumbasses for flying us into-" _THUD_! Clark was instantly rendered unconscious by Brock punching him as hard as he could in the jaw.

Brock flexed his right hand still a bit tender from the night before and scoffed. "I warned you…" He could see a blond haired female passenger glare disapprovingly at him across the aisle. Sitting next to her was a little boy appearing horrified. The woman was given a passive, unblinking expression in return. "This is what happens when parents don't discipline their bratty kids." The woman blinked a couple of times in disbelief. Not concerned, Brock closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat.


	24. Already Broken

**23 -Already Broken**

Another ice bath made and another day of trying to ease the sore muscles, joints and numerous bruises gifted to her by Mongoose. It was a four times a week routine, by now. Syra rested her head on the back of the tub and deeply sighed. Two weeks had already passed by, and it didn't seem like the advice from Rollins was working as stated. Every time she stood up to show she wasn't weak, it almost always ended up with her unconscious on the floor and drooling on herself. There were the few times she managed to cling on to some lucidness after her lessons, though. Thankfully, Goose lost interest in her and left her alone on those occasions.

Despite the constant aches and loss of sleep because of, Syra felt she had improved over the course of the two weeks of her lessons. She was getting better at anticipating Goose and reading his body's movements before he made an attack. Now she just needed to practice reacting faster…if that was possible. Just when she thought she was doing good avoiding one blow, another from a different direction knocked her off guard.

Syra rolled over onto her left hip to relieve the pressure off her bruised right one. The cantaloupe sized black, blue and green patch stared back at her through the ice floating on the water's surface. Her left thigh and a part of her upper back didn't look much better. Just days ago, she half expected to piss blood after Goose kicked her near a kidney. Why was she doing this again?

Her thoughts were abruptly ended the moment her cell phone rang. It vibrated on the vanity beside the sink as a particular melody announced the caller. A flutter of excitement filled her, knowing it was Rumlow calling. If it were anyone else calling, she would have let it ring. Rumlow was different. Grunting and groaning with the settling aches and pains, Syra forced herself out of the tub to answer her phone.

"Hey, baby!" she joyously cheered.

On his end of the phone, Brock boyishly smiled without realizing it. He was sitting in a Quinjet and suited up for a mission along with the rest of STRIKE. "How's my sweetness doing?" Clark was seated across from him and making kissy faces.

"I'm sitting in another ice bath. I think I'm getting better, though. Oh, and tell Rollins his advice sucks. Getting up to show strength over weakness doesn't work."

"Uh huh…" Brock glowered at Rollins wearing a subtle smirk. "I'll have a talking to with him about that." The smirk grew wider. "Mother fucker, you set her up!" Rollins' expression turned into one that reflected the satisfaction within him. Brock resumed his conversing with the young woman. "Other than that, how have you been?"

"Good. Tired. Ready for the semester to be over so I can get a small break." Syra was silent for a few moments. "I miss you. When are you coming back this way?"

Clark had his hand above his lap, now, and imitating someone giving him a blowjob. Brock pointed at him and mouthed, "I'm going to kick your ass!" He shook his head and answered Syra's question. "I'm not sure. All I can say is I'll see you when I see you."

"Go piss someone off so you can come back to the academy for more teamwork speeches."

Brock laughed to himself. "I've already pissed off plenty of people, here lately."

The Quinjet pilot called out, "Eagle One ETA twelve minutes." The aircraft shifted from its jet engines to turbofans as it ascended above the clouds. "Eagle Two holding back and awaiting orders."

Syra heard the pilot. "Are you on a mission?"

"I am, and about to kick some serious ass. I'll call you when I'm done."

"Okay. Good luck."

The call was ended, and Brock stashed his phone inside his cargo pants pocket. His focus returned to the smug Rollins. "What the fuck, man? How are you just going to lie to her like that?"

"The only way to get the weakness out of that bitch is to have it beat out of her. If she manages to survive Mongoose by the time we go after the Turk, then she's earned the right to join the mission."

Usually, Brock saw things the same way. There was no room or place for weakness in HYDRA, but Syra was different. "In the two weeks it took me to make her from the sniveling and scared little brat she used to be to how she was when you saw her, I never once laid a harmful hand on her."

Clark blurted a laugh. "Bullshit! You had her eating the training mat in hand to hand combat class! Not to mention how you knocked her out, once. I heard the stories. I know some people in the academy, too."

Brock pointed a finger at Clark. "It was not with malicious intent… _mostly_." He shrugged. _"Mostly!_ My goal was to make her stronger. Not break damn near every bone in her body, like Goose." Brock looked back at Rollins. "Or set her up for it… _like some!"_

The pilot called back out. "Getting in position for the drop."

Brock unbuckled from his seat's harness and stood up to fasten a parachute pack on. "Alright, STRIKE...you know the objective, you know the plan! Don't fuck it up!" As the rest of the team did the same, the team lead slammed the side of his fist against the red button to lower the aircraft's back ramp. A strong gust of air swept through the Quinjet as the dark of night greeted his eyes.

"In position for deployment," was announced.

One by one, STRIKE exited the aircraft at eleven-thousand three-hundred feet. They started to part ways in the different directions for their positioning. When at the right altitude, parachutes were released. Brock shouldered a SHIELD modified, long range rifle and peered down at the ground. Several red heat signatures the size of dirt specs were seen patrolling a secured military-like compound.

Brock spoke into his earpiece. "On you, Charlie."

Rollins heard the order and too, shouldered his weapon. A specialized round was shot off from a grenade launcher like attachment on his rifle that quickly propelled downwards. Moments later, an electromagnetic pulse erupted from the shell. The illuminated military compound went dark.

Brock gave the next set of orders. "Echo, Foxtrot are you nearing your positions?"

Lorne answered. "Copy. Seven-hundred yards from location."

Reed replied, next. "Copy. Touching down in three, two, one…on spot!" The agent landed near a steel door set in the side of a medium sized hill. "Infiltrating now." Using a mouse-hole laser cutting device, Reed made an entry point in the sealed door big enough for him to fit through.

Lorne spoke. "Echo on spot and infiltrating now." Like Reed, Lorne used a mouse-hole on the door he was assigned to.

Brock resumed. "Bravo, Delta…on my mark." Clark readied his rifle, as did Brody. Below them and growing larger in size were the compound patrols. "Now!" In their slow descent to the earth, the three marksman agents pecked off the unsuspecting patrols. When none were left standing, Brock scoffed. "What the fuck, you guys? I took out six hostiles… you two took out, what… _four_ between the both of you?"

Clark snorted. "Oh, my bad…I wasn't aware this was a pissing contest, _Alpha Asshole!"_

The three men landed within the compound's central complex. Brock released the parachute from his person and hunkered down for cover should someone within the facility spot them. He whispered into his earpiece. "Eagle Two, move in. Echo, Foxtrot…status?"

Lorne bull-rushed into two men, grabbing one in each arm and slamming them forcefully into a concrete wall. Both were rendered unconscious and left laying on the floor heaped atop the other. He saw movement from the corner of his eye just as a shot was fired at him. It grazed his upper arm just enough to piss him off. Big mistake. Lorne unholstered his pistol and took it off safety in the blink of an eye. An exchange of gunfire ended the attacker and riddled Lorne's protective body vest with bullet holes. Thankfully the metal plates stopped any from puncturing vital organs. Didn't mean the impact site of the stopped bullet hurt any less.

Lorne grumbled, cracked his neck and proceeded down a corridor. "This is Echo. West wing clear."

As for Reed, he dodged this attack and that from a hyperactive Turkish mercenary. A fist meant to break Reed's nose was stopped by a strong-handed grasp. The wrist was compromised, then broken and the mercenary headbutted. He fell to the ground, dazed and seeing stars. One pull of a pistol's trigger from Reed aimed at the head killed him. It was just another body to add to the kill count the agent had racked up. Sprawled across the floor in pools of blood were three others.

"This is Foxtrot…East Wing secure."

Brock nodded to himself. He felt his cell phone vibrate once in his pocket, meaning it was a message and wondered what it was of. He'd have to check later. "Bravo, Charlie with me. Delta, cover our flank."

Brody did as ordered and tailed behind Rumlow, Rollins, and Clark. The three leading men quickly descended a flight of stairs outside the compound that lead them to a steel door on the ground level. An explosive device was mounted in place by Rollins and the charge detonated. The door was blasted opened to which enemy gunfire spewed out. Clark tossed two smoke grenades inside that filled the room in a matter of seconds.

Brock could still see the enemy heat signatures through his modified scope and shot off round after round till no one was left standing. "Central compound secured."

Since there was no longer any threat of danger, he decided to check his phone. It was a picture mail from Syra. She was standing completely nude in front of the mirror and posing for the picture. Visible on her right hip was a massive bruise she was pointing at. If that's what she was trying to show off, he could've guessed otherwise for her well-rounded ass, and bare breasts stole his attention. Sexual excitement started to surge in his groin, and he groaned in frustration. Cock teasing little minx.

Brock commented to himself. "Holy shit, babe."

Clark whistled from over his leader's shoulder. "Damn, boss. That's nice." Brock gawked at his teammate from over his shoulder.

Also standing behind him were Brody and Rollins. Brock was mildly irritated, but also proud of his girl. "Fucking seriously? It's called privacy."

Brody scoffed a laugh. "Privacy means in private. You just whipped that shit out with us standing here. That's not privacy…that's _asking_ for attention."

Brock sighed and shook his head. He closed out the message and pulled up Pierce's number. Two rings and an answer. "Site A secured."

Pierce ended the call as quickly as he answered it. His grey eyes smiled slyly at the dark beady one of Director Fury observing him intently across his desk. The councilman explained. "I have STRIKE on a training assignment." The look on Fury's face said he wasn't buying the excuse. "There's been nothing going on requiring STRIKE's reinforcement. As such, I want to keep them sharp and ready should something come about in the future." Fury didn't blink from his suspicious stare.

* * *

Week four. Another ice bath. This time, Syra had to elevate her swollen and busted knee on the side of the tub. She took an ice cube and pressed it against the small, raw gash splitting her right eyebrow. A bead of blood-tinted water sailed down the side of her hand, down her arm and into dispersed in the bathwater. More like it joined the first. This was going to be just another scar to add to the rest decorating her face. Even breathing hurt after the shoulder check Mongoose gave her right in the sternum during their lesson. Regardless, her good mood couldn't be shaken knowing she was definitely improving. Today was the longest she had remained on her feet in all of her lessons since the beginning.

* * *

Brock watched STRIKE gather the survivors left alive after their raid on a mountainside villa in Ecuador. Overhead was a Quinjet landing outside the villa's fenced in perimeter. In his hand was his phone and a call being made to Pierce. "Site B secured. The Turk was nowhere to be found." Joining STRIKE was Eagle Two's team. "Decoy team is prepping."

By the time the mercenary survivors were restrained and separated into two teams for transport, Eagle Two's team was just getting started on their assignment. Each member of the group had their real identities concealed by an agency mask that altered their appearance to make them look like the mercenaries.

Brock split STRIKE into two teams to escort the mercenaries in the Quinjets back to D.C. He led one team while Rollins was assigned to the other.

* * *

Week six. Syra hoisted her trembling body up to her hands and knees and spit out a mouthful of blood. In the middle of the wad was a tooth from towards the back of her lower right jaw. She wiped the blood off her scarred lips and got to her feet. Mongoose swung a fist to knock her back to the floor, but Syra narrowly avoided it. She dropped to the ground, herself, and kicked one of Mongoose's knees out from under him. He even grimaced when his knee popped.

Instructor and student continued to duel, Syra unaware Davis was watching her through the gym's cracked door. The academy director was mildly impressed at the cadet's progress and backed away from the door.

A firm fist struck Syra in the side. She knew the attack should've hurt and was surprised that it didn't as much as she thought it would. Was Goose pulling his punches? Or was her pain tolerance getting better? Then she felt herself hoisted up to be thrown. She wasn't having it. Syra wrapped her legs around the Mongolian's chest and with enough wiggling and careful movement while hanging on for dear life, managed to get her legs around the man's head. Mongoose repeatedly punched the cadet in her lower back as she tried her best to squeeze the muscular neck between her thighs. Her left hand was locked in a handful of his hair and her right fist assaulting his face.

Mongoose felt the cadet's grip around his neck weaken the more he punished her lower back with attacks. Enough of this. The man threw himself forward and to the ground with the woman taking the full brunt of the ground's impact with her back. It left her momentarily paralyzed and unable to move.

Syra laid there, body seized up and barely able to breathe. She choked and gasped for air, wondering what Rumlow would think of her right now if he were there. What would Mikel think? After everything he tried to teach her and train her for over the year and a half of their lessons. He was the reason she was even here, to begin with; her revenge on the Turk. The taste of that revenge was becoming lost through the blood. No. She wasn't about to admit defeat.

Mongoose unwrapped the woman's legs from around the front of him and raised up to a kneeling position. The white knuckles of his right fist almost glowed in the academy gym light overhead. His eyes were set squarely where her stomach was, and he reared back his fist to nail his final attack.

"Night, ni-" _CRACK!_ Syra kicked him in the face that silenced him.

"Fuck you!" Syra breathlessly raged. "Mongolian mother fucker!" The young woman rolled over onto her side and mustered what strength she could to sit up on her knees. Her back refused to wholly support her posture, so she sat, hunched over and glaring at the Mongoose beneath a lowered brow. "I know Secretary Pierce told you to break me and you're doing a pretty damn good job of trying. But let me tell you this…you can't and won't break me." Syra bent a leg up and pushed herself to stand. Her knees knocked against themselves as she fought to stay standing. "Why? Because I was already broken." Teary green eyes turned to thin slits and a crease formed between her brows. "So go ahead…continue to beat me into the floor…knock me around till I have no more teeth. I don't care. You can't hurt me any more than I already have been."

The response she got wasn't what she expected.

Mongoose started laughing. It was quiet at first, then grew louder until it echoed the entire gym. It was rich and deep and had Syra baffled on what was so funny. He shook the daze out of his head and stood up. Syra felt her already questionable equilibrium falter. That smackdown Goose gave her really must have shaken something up in her head. Before she fell back to the floor, Mongoose's strong hand caught her. She greatly anticipated getting hit and braced her entire body for it. It never came.

The man clapped the cadet on the back. "Secretary Pierce was wrong about you. You have spirit, little girl…and fight."

 _Little?!_ Well, in comparison to the broad body mass and height of the man, Syra was much…well…littler. Syra silently watched the man subtly limp off the training mat and out of the gym. Did she actually hurt him, if even just a minor bit? She blinked, swollen jaw agape and mind a whirl with mixed thoughts and questions.

Mongoose ventured to Davis's office and invited himself to sit down in front of the desk. Davis was on the phone. The academy director studied the agent and noticed the triumphant smile across his chiseled jaw. Davis quietly spoke into his office phone. "One minute, sir, my apologies." A hand was placed over the receiver. "I take it you're here to _finally_ tell me you broke the girl?"

Mongoose chuckled. "Sometimes, a person with nothing to live for cannot be broken, for they already are."

Davis grinned deviously and removed his hand from the phone. "Mr. Secretary? She's ready for the mission."


	25. Codeword: Beautiful Sunrise

**24 – Codeword: Beautiful Sunrise**

The biggest shit eating grin Brock Rumlow had ever worn was now proudly on display for all to see. He strode down the corridor and away from Pierce standing in the doorway to his office. Brock looked down a small, sealed metal tube in his hand. Within it was a plan to get Cadet Jensen out of class long enough to allow for mission execution. The container was stashed in a pants pocket for concealment. Pride swelled within the STRIKE agent. She had done it. Syra had managed to prove herself to Mongoose. How she did it wasn't in the details during his meeting with the councilman. What all Brock knew was she was approved for the Turk mission. Whenever that would be. Three of the terrorist's go to hiding spots were under HYDRA control, with no traces of his recent presence found at either location, leaving Iran the only place he could be.

There was another option, however; he was tucked away at a fifth safe spot unknown to anyone outside his most trusted circle. Should that be the case, the fourth sight would be taken over with not much of a fight and a decoy team assigned. It was only a matter of time before the Turk returned to one of his favored spots, and when he did Pierce would be notified as well as STRIKE. From there, it was up to the undercover agents to take out the Turk's guards and apprehend the primary target. By the time it came around for Cadet Jensen's involvement, the big bad boss man would be wrapped up and ready to present like an early Christmas present. All she needed to do was pull the trigger on his sorry ass and boom, instant revenge. If only it were that easy every time.

Brock merely made his way to the floor's elevator and mashed on the button to go down. It took it a few minutes, but it eventually arrived, and its doors opened. The man strode inside and ordered to the cubicle computer, "Firing Range."

He knew most of his team tended to hang out there when not busy doing bitchwork for Fury or having to play kiss ass to Captain America. The thought of the goody-two-shoed son a bitch made Brock's blood boil. Just as Syra hungered for her chance to kill the Turk, the STRIKE lead wanted nothing more in his HYDRA career than to shoot Steve Rogers in the fucking face.

Brock felt the elevator come to a slow much sooner than his desired destination. The doors opened and lo and behold stood that blond-haired, baby-faced-

"Good morning, Agent Rumlow," piped the grinning soldier. Seeing Rogers in civilian clothes was misleading. His zip down blue jacket, white t-shirt, and blue jeans made him look like the average schmuck Brock could take down with one good punch to the face. Rogers entered the elevator. "First floor."

Brock forced himself to return the friendly greeting. "Cap." Smiling brown eyes instantly turned to daggers that visually stabbed the soldier in the back. "Got any plans this weekend?"

Rogers shook his head. "Other than trying to relax? Not really." He glanced back at the rather disgruntled looking agent. "You?"

Other than thinking of all the ways to kill him as painfully as possible? Maybe. "Might go out of a town. Not sure yet." Which wasn't a lie. The thought of taking a quick shuttle flight to pay Syra a surprise visit was strongly being considered.

"Training missions getting to you that much?"

Brock glared at the pretty boy. "Something like that. No telling where STRIKE will end up next." The elevator opened on the floor housing the Triskelion firing range. The agent fought with his human side to bid the soldier farewell for professionalism's sake and quickly left the elevator.

The sounds of pistols of various calibers being shot grew louder the closer Brock got to the range. He swiped his SHIELD badge across the card reader and was granted access inside. A pair of hearing protectors was checked out from the front desk, as per protocol, so that he may go into the firing range itself. Clark was found first with Rollins practicing in the lane beside him. Brock tapped on their shoulders to get their attention. Both agents put their pistols on safe and holstered them to see what their team leader wanted.

Clark could tell something was up by the mischievous glint in the other's eyes. "Alright, what did you do and who did you piss off?"

"I have good news and bad news." Brock kept a close watch on Rollins for the priceless expression he knew was incoming. "She did it."

Clark shrugged. "Great, so what's the bad news?"

Rollins groaned out loud and turned away. "That is the bad news."

Brock laughed. Clark looked from Rollins and back to the team lead. "And the good news is?" The shit eating smile was back. "Right. That _was_ the good news." Clark smirked and pointed a joking finger at his friend and coworker. "I see what you did there." He turned around to resume his range practice. "Have you called, yet?"

The empty clip was ejected, and while a full one was inserted, Brock responded. "I'm going to go tell her myself." Clark missed the downrange target altogether in surprise. "I'm flying there tonight, and I'll be back tomorrow evening."

"You and that girl, man."

Brock clapped the man on his shoulder and walked away.

Before the duty day was over, Brock had him a round-trip ticket purchased for seven-twenty that evening. If only seven-twenty came sooner than later.

* * *

A fired bullet ripped through the bullseye of the last remaining objectives on a sniper's target much to Syra's satisfaction. The safety was flicked on, and she sat up on her knees to begin prepping her rifle for cleaning. The other range students were finishing up their pistol practice as quickly and efficiently as they could. The faster practice was concluded, the quicker they could clean and check in their issued weapons to begin their weekend.

As usual, she was the last to finish cleaning her weapon. Unlike her fellow classmates, she had no plans after this to look forward to. Not to mention she was meticulous with the cleaning of her rifle. She was slow and thorough, making sure no surface was forgotten or overlooked. Afterward, she tucked the weapon back into its case and carried it to Fredricks behind the armory cage.

The lively old man took the case and hung it back up in its rightful spot. "Got any plans this weekend, my dear?"

Syra shrugged and buried her hands in her grim reaper hoodie. "Do I ever have any plans?"

"That new pizza place opened up downtown three days ago. You should check it out. They've got a really good…" Fredricks' voice trailed off. Green eyes were skewering him. He was confused by the hateful stare when he suddenly remembered. "Oh. Right. Mikel." His cheeks filled with embarrassment. "My apologies."

Syra didn't say anything as she strolled out of the beige building and to her Buell motorcycle parked in the cadet parking lot. The drive back to her apartment was grueling. She hit every red light and even found herself in backed up traffic caused by a wreck. By the time she got to her apartment, it was nearing five-twelve. She should've already been showered and relaxing in her pajamas by now.

The cadet untied her boots and tossed her hoodie on the back of a dining room chair. The debate of taking a nap or getting something to eat after soaking in a hot tub tore at her. Pizza did sound good, though not from downtown. She didn't care how much Fredricks boasted about the place. Ever since the hostage situation in the town square, Syra avoided the downtown districts like the plague. Not because she was afraid of another terrorist incident, but because she couldn't stop looking at the roof of the high-rise building Mikel died on. Even driving around it on the interstate two times a day going to and from the academy was gut-wrenching enough. She saw it as a monument to her unfathomable rage and deeply scarred heart. No matter how hard she tried to not look at the offensive building, she would anyway.

Hot bath water filled the tub as steam fogged up the mirror. Syra sprinkled a few lavender bath salts in the water and slipped into its soothing depths. It was a hell of a lot easier to get into a hot bath than it was an iced one. Maybe now since she proved herself to Goose, he'd be more lenient on her training. Unless he felt the overwhelming urge to keep pushing her harder and harder each lesson. Ugh. Please, not. At this rate, she was going to have the worst arthritis of her life by the time she was thirty.

Syra lifted a leg out of the water to analyze a series of bruises littering her leg. That's when she noticed how long it had been since she had last shaved. Her legs looked and felt like a cactus! She usually wasn't this lax on shaving, but Mongoose kept her so fatigued and not really giving a shit that the thought hadn't crossed her mind as of late. Until now. Syra reached for her razor on one side of the tub, and her moisturizing body wash on the other.

* * *

Come eight-fifteen, and Syra was flat out bored. She was laying on her stomach and flipping through television channels offering nothing interesting to watch. In just a few months she'd be twenty-one and able to bar hop and club crawl with the rest of the bimbos and badasses looking for a gullible wallet willing to buy drinks for a woman's company. Until then, she had Fredricks to support her underage bad habit. Maybe Rumlow, too, next time she saw him. Whenever that would be. Just like the Turk mission. Syra sighed. She needed something to do. The TV was turned off, and the young woman left in the darkness of her apartment, deep in thought.

There was always cruising through the twenty-four-hour shopping supercenter for new movies, clothes…snacks…stuff. As she tried to motivate herself to get up, the exhaustion in her body caught up with her. Her heavy eyelids gradually closed as she gave in to sleep.

* * *

 _Knock, knock, knock!_ An eyelid cracked open. What had just woken her up? _Knock, knock!_ Who in the living fuck was at her door this late at night? She checked the time on her phone. Ten fifty-three. It felt later than that. _Bang, bang, bang!_

Now she was pissed. "How about you just bust the door down while you're at it, bitch!"

The woman leaped to her feet and stormed over to the door. On her way to it, she grabbed her pistol off the table by the door and cocked it. The door was unlocked and jerked open to see a black leather jacket and green military fatigues. Green eyes met brown as shock and wordless surprise overcame Syra.

Brock saw the groggy look in the woman's eyes and the pistol in her hand. "I take it I woke you up?"

Syra squealed in delight. _"Baby!"_ She put her pistol on safe and leaped into the man's arms.

Brock held her tightly against him and passionately kissed those scarred, pale rose lips. The two-hour flight of listening to a screaming kid was all worth it in that moment. Her lavender body wash filled his senses, and her kiss eased all his frustrations and anger. It didn't occur to either of them how they must look in that moment, lip locked and with a gun in her hand that she had wrapped around the back of his neck. He didn't care. She didn't care. Fuck it, who cares?

Brock allowed the woman to slide from his grasp in her sauntering back into her apartment. That look in her eyes, he knew what was going to happen next, and he gladly welcomed it. He shut the door behind him but didn't get a chance to lock it when Syra had him pinned against it. Her ravenous kiss assaulted his mouth, and her eager hands tugged at his belt.

 _Damn_! She was getting straight to business! Okay! Brock grabbed her by the back of her head and pulled her further onto him. He moaned into her mouth and eased his free hand under her shirt. There wasn't an ounce of surprise in him when he discovered she wasn't wearing a bra underneath her tank top.

Brown eyes stared lovingly into green ones. "God, I missed you."

He hastily removed her shirt and shrugged off his jacket. His mouth locked around one of her perky nipples and sucked on it. At the same time, he was removing her pajama pants and panties. His body needed hers around him more than ever.

Now bare of clothing, Syra was scooped up in strong and gentle arms and carried to her bedroom. She was thrown onto her messy bed, and she giggled, watching her lover fight with his boot laces. Boots were kicked off to the side, one making a loud thud against the wall, as another tumbled somewhere else. Military fatigues and boxer briefs joined next as did Brock's black shirt. Feeling like a little boy at heart, the STRIKE agent jumped into the bed and body slammed the hysterically laughing woman.

They playfully fought against the other, bodies heating up in sexual anticipation. Everything in Brock begged him to cut the childish horseplay and bend Syra over. He refused to give in, just yet. He wanted to enjoy her company, if only for a moment later. Her laughter and lightheartedness were just as refreshing as her kiss.

He pressed his body into her back, the head of his erect cock grazing between her buttocks. Brock nuzzled his face into her hair and deeply inhaled the aphrodisiac that was her scent. He loved her and wished to have her just like this every night. Mikel was a lucky as fuck bastard that didn't deserve this. Brock's lips brushed along the edge of Syra's ear in tender kisses. When he reached her neck, he sucked on the soft skin down to her scarred shoulder. His callous hand groped and kneaded one of her breasts before venturing downward along her stomach and between her legs.

The excited heat of her core moistened his fingertips. Brock listened to his lover's heavy breathing and soft mews as he teased and toyed her. He brushed a finger along her clit and felt her body lightly spasm against him. Light nips and sucks returned to her neck and shoulder, leaving pinkened patches of skin in their wake. The more Brock massaged the sensitive nub under his finger, the more Syra gyrated her hips against his. This further stimulated his painfully throbbing hard-on.

His gruff voice in her ear made the hair on her arms stand on end. "You coming for me?" Syra's mouth refused to work through the whimpers and moans, so she nodded instead. There was no mistaking she was on the verge of a tipping point. "That's it, baby."

Watching and feeling her writhe against him was one of the most beautiful things he ever saw. His name barely filtered through her parted lips as she came in ecstasy. Brock couldn't take it anymore. He flipped her onto her back and positioned himself between her thighs. One swift thrust into her tight core had the man quickly giving in to his own body's needs.

Her body firmly pressed against his and her nails clawing at his back was pure bliss for him. So much that it was drawing him closer and closer to his own release, whether he was ready for it or not. He couldn't slow down; he didn't want to. He needed this and in several forceful pumps, emptied his pent-up stress within the textured heat of his lover. Okay…he definitely needed round two, but…in a little bit. His heart was pounding thunderously in his chest and the room spiraling dizzily around him.

Syra patted Brock on his bare ass. "Good game."

He rolled over and plopped down on the bed beside her. Syra snuggled up to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Want to get some grub before round two?"

Syra giggled and kissed the man on his cheek. "If you're a good boy and eat all your dinner, I'll make you a special dessert."

All the ideas that popped into Brock's mind had nothing to do with food. "Define _special_ …"

Green eyes filled with a seductive sparkle. "I have chocolate, caramel and strawberry syrup and whip cream in the fridge."

Holy shit did they think just alike. Brock was _very_ pleased with this and felt himself start to harden up again. He was going to make her into an all-night sweet tooth buffet.

* * *

Outside, the afternoon sun showed brightly in the sky. Inside the bedroom of Cadet Jensen's apartment, however, it remained dark. Her blackout curtains hung up in the room made sleeping during the day much, much easier. Piled up in the corner of the room by the dresser were bed sheets dirtied up from flavored syrups. Laying on a freshly made bed and a tangle of limbs was Brock and Syra soundly asleep against the other. On the nightstand next to the bed were an empty bottle of chocolate syrup and the quarter full bottle of strawberry syrup and an empty can of whip cream. On the floor in front of the nightstand was the messy bottle of caramel syrup.

Brock's cell phone alarm quietly chimed. His ear tuned in to it and without waking Syra, reached over to silence it. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. He frowned. In just three hours, he would be back on a plane headed for D.C. Hopefully, without a screaming kid. Brock laid back down to gaze upon the peaceful form of Syra. He lightly traced over her lips' scar with his thumb. The last time he saw her, the prominent scar was a raw gash held closed by butterfly band-aids. As was the case with her swollen cheek that too, bore a scar. In her right eyebrow was another one. Seeing her natural beauty marred by the Mongoose was enough to stir a flicker of anger in him. But the longer he admired every inch of her face, he came to appreciate the scars. They gave her personality and showed her transition from that frail weakling of a cadet he first bumped into outside the academy cafeteria to a strong young woman. Strength wasn't just in the body, but in the heart and soul as well.

Brock kissed her forehead and carefully crawled out of bed. He got dressed and saw the bottles of syrup on the nightstand and floor. The memory of last night's experimenting that stretched into the early hours of the morning was something he would never forget. Just as he experimented on her, she did to him as well. That was by far the best damn blow job he had ever had in his life. What was it she called it? A swiss roll? He laughed to himself, shaking his head, and left the room.

He made him a bowl of frosted flaked cereal and skimmed through the missed messages on his phone. Go figure they were all from Clark giving him shit for flying out to see Syra. The messages were dismissed, and just as Brock was about to take another bite of cereal, Syra emerged from the bedroom. He was a bit disappointed she wasn't nude, but the fact she was wearing a sports bra and shorts allowed him to see the result of last night. She looked something like a dalmatian with the hickies along her neck, chest, and stomach to add to the bruises from Mongoose dotting her back and legs.

Syra lazily shuffled to the couch and joined the STRIKE agent. Brock sat the bowl down to get the metal tube out of his pocket. He handed it to her and explained. "Listen very carefully to my instructions. Don't open it _until_ you're told to. When you do, a small tube will pop out. Put it up your nose and breathe in deeply."

Syra looked at the object. "What is it?"

"It's your class excusal for three days so no one will suspect anything when you're gone on the Turk mission. They'll just think you're at home sick. It'll give you flu-like symptoms after you inhale the contents. Afterward, close the tube, put it in a Ziploc bag and give it to Davis. He'll dispose of it."

The worried young woman nodded and looked into Brock's eyes. She knew he wouldn't hurt her and trusted him with her life. "Okay. When will I know to take it?"

"Someone will call you or message you. If it's not me, then it'll be Clark or Rollins. The codeword is beautiful sunrise, got it?" Syra nodded. "As soon as you're given the codeword, inhale the tube's contents and just wait for someone to come get you."

"Okay. Beautiful sunrise… got it."


	26. Whatever It Takes

**25 – Whatever It Takes**

Another week passed by and Syra was growing more and more anxious. If the mission kept getting pushed back, then she wouldn't have to worry about the flu-tube as an excuse to get out of class. It would be the summer break and who cared what she did during that time? Two-thirty-one in the afternoon ticked by on the wall clock in her Foreign Language and Deciphering class. This class sucked. It was boring. Her mind wandered about, curious to know what Rumlow was doing at present.

* * *

Brock easily avoided a thrown fist aimed at his face and returned his attacker's gesture with a swift punch to the throat. The Middle Eastern mercenary dropped to his knees and gasped for air with both hands around his neck in distress. A handful of his matted black hair was grabbed in a fingerless gloved hand and a knee drove into his nose. Loud crunching sounded on impact as blood gushed down the offending man's thick-bearded face.

The clanking of a grenade rolling into the room got Brock's attention. " _Grenade_!" he yelled to Lorne and Clark also fighting in the room with him.

Brock yanked the dazed mercenary off the floor and threw him onto the grenade. Before the man knew what was going on, the grenade exploded as the three STRIKE members took cover behind a toppled over desk.

* * *

A spitball hit Syra in the face. She glared hatefully in the direction the slobbery mess came from and met the grey eyes of a dirty blond haired young man in his mid-twenties. His choice of a light blue button-down shirt under an open navy-blue suit coat, matching tie and slacks topped off with neatly groomed hair gave him a frat boy appearance. Sad thing was, he always looked like that. Tucked under his arm was a red and white striped straw. Syra knew this particular guy was Charles Bronson, a mischievous pain in the ass who thought he was God's gift to women.

He winked at her and nodded his head. Syra rolled her eyes and returned to working on the class's daily assignment. Another spitball shot in her direction. Oh yeah, he was definitely going to get his ass kicked tomorrow in hand to hand combat class. Since her lessons with Mongoose started, she was a lot more aggressive during her class sessions with Agent Ramirez. Sometimes, she was too rough with her opponents which she didn't mean to be.

As strange as it was for her to admit, she actually wished she was sparring with Goose instead of enduring the drudgery of the class. A good fight sounded fun.

* * *

STRIKE watched the bodies, and what remained of one, be loaded into body bags and flown out on a Quinjet. The decoy team was in place and disguised as their false identities. Once the final Turk hideout in Iran was secured, the second jet was boarded and STRIKE headed back for D.C.

Clark unfastened his body vest and dropped it to the floor at his feet. "Hey boss, I'm curious. What would've happened if the Turk was here? I thought your girl was supposed to join us? What happened?"

Brock lounged out in his seat the best he could. "Secretary Pierce thought it was impractical to bring her along on every mission to the raids. Too many missed days at the academy would raise some eyebrows with the board of education directors. Once there's visual confirmation on his location Cadet Jensen will be notified and she brought in."

Clark blinked. "That's it? We do the dirty work, and she just prisses her little ass in and takes the shot? Doesn't get her hands dirty beforehand…just…gets shit handed to her. All because that bastard did HYDRA a favor by ordering the kill shot on Jensen." He shook his head. "That's some bullshit." Clark saw Rumlow appearing disapproving of his statement. "Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against your girl. _Personally_. Professionally? I think she needs to put in some work, too, if she wants in on the spoils."

Rollins, who had been sitting quietly to himself and wiping dried blood off his pistol, scoffed. "Stop your fucking bitching, Mitch. It's not our place to question the orders, just do as we're told."

Dark brown eyes settled down on their teammate. "Seriously?"

Brock sighed. "Relax! She'll get her chance to prove her worth. Whether it's on the Turk mission or a different one later on down the road after she graduates the academy, I'll personally make sure her hands get dirty."

Rollins held up his pistol in the light to make sure he got all the blood off. "Is that with or without you holding her hand?"

Brock shot the agent a middle finger.

* * *

The Quinjet touched down on the Triskelion landing pad where the rest of the aircraft , and the engines shut down. The back hatch opened and STRIKE unloaded with handfuls of issued protective equipment. Brock stood in front of Rollins to stop him in his place. "What the fuck is your issue with Sy, huh?"

"We've had this talk before," snarled Rollins.

"Well, it's time for another one. So, talk."

Hazel eyes rolled in their sockets in annoyance. He knew there was no getting out of this conversation. "Lise."

"Your little sister? Okay, what about her?"

"Jensen is just like her. The anxiety, an easy target for HYDRA to prey on, her personality…"

Brock squinted in bafflement and cocked his head to the side. "You hate Sy because she reminds you of Lise?" Rollins didn't respond. The STRIKE lead wasn't expecting to stab at a sore spot in his best man and took a minute to read the other's body language. "That's not _all_ of it…is it? You hate her because you don't want to get too attached to her. It would be like losing Lise all over again if something happened to her."

"I hate her because she adapted; because she's stronger than Lise! Because no matter how much I want to see her fail, she doesn't."

Brock shook his head. "But you don't hate her. Do you? You don't want to see her fail, either, or else you wouldn't have called her and warned her about Goose." Rollins' harsh scowl burned into his team leader. "She's not the enemy here, Jack. She lost her entire family to HYDRA, too. Yet, here she is willing to fight alongside us."

Rollins scoffed. "No, Brock. She's here to _use_ us to get what _she wants_! Once she gets to pull the trigger on the Turk, I can already see her blowing the whistle on us _and_ on HYDRA to Director Fury. Just watch." Rollins shouldered past Brock and returned to the armory for equipment check-in.

* * *

The days fell in line one after another too slowly for anyone's liking. Then one night, came the call. Brock had just come out of the shower after a three-hour long work-out at the gym and thought for a moment it was Syra calling him. His pleasant smile dropped the moment he saw Pierce's name flash on his cell phone's screen. "Rumlow."

"Decoy Bravo has reported confirmation on the target. He just landed outside his villa in a personal helicopter with his wife." Pierce could clearly visualize the excitement on the agent's face. "Do what you need to and report in. Be ready for deployment in twelve-hours."

"And the cargo?"

Pierce was silent a moment. "Prep the cargo."

"Yes, sir." Brock ended the call and cheered to himself. He hurriedly brought up Syra's number.

* * *

Syra swapped Q-tips up her bloody nostrils and examined at her bruised face in the mirror. Oh, she looked absolutely stunning. There was a swollen cut along her hairline, and another above her already scarred left eye-brow. Standing in her bathroom's doorway was Mongoose looking pleased with himself.

Syra shot him a corner eyed smirk. "Going easy on me, now?"

Mongoose crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't break my nose! You only bloodied it!"

The man stood upright and popped his knuckles. "I can fix that if you're complaining."

Syra tossed a bloodied Q-tip at him the other one into the trash beside the toilet. She was about to replace them when her cell phone started ringing in the living room. It was Rumlow's ringtone, and she almost slipped on the slick tile floor scrambling to answer it. "Shit, shit, shit! Brock is calling!" Mongoose sidestepped to allow the woman out. She fumbled with the phone and answered it. "Hey, baby!"

Hearing his girl happy further brightened his mood. "There's my girl! How have you been?"

"Doing better now that you've called."

Brock's smile faltered as he got to the point of his phone call. "I wish you were here. It's supposed to be a beautiful sunrise, tomorrow."

Mongoose watched the school girl sparkle dim from the woman's eyes and her overall expression turn woeful. Syra closed her eyes and deeply inhaled a breath. "Is that what the weatherman just said?"

"Yeah."

Syra's head dropped. "I should get some rest. I have a busy day tomorrow."

"Get some sleep, babe. I'll call you tomorrow night."

The young woman wasn't sure how long she stood there with the phone pressed against her ear after the call was ended. Mongoose approached her with the flu-tube in his hand. She took it and weakly laughed. "Here's to that beautiful sunrise."

* * *

Two forty-eight in the morning and Syra couldn't sleep. Her head was pounding, her sinuses congested and her throat scratchy. Within three hours, she couldn't decide if she was hot or cold. She'd wrap herself up tight in her blankets because holy shit hypothermia only to toss them off minutes later as sweat poured off her body. It didn't help she couldn't stop coughing, sneezing, blowing her nose…which only started up nosebleeds…or even get comfortable.

Syra rolled her sore and aching body out of bed and dragged it to the bathroom. She started the shower for what she hoped would relax her before needing to report into the academy. While sick and almost incapable of physically moving, she still had to show her face for roll call. From there, she would be excused to the academy infirmary for analysis. It'd be determined she was, in fact, sick with the flu and no doubt be discharged for the next three days. How she was supposed to carry out the Turk mission was beyond her. Maybe she'd be lucid enough to kill that-not wait. She would. She had to be. Like hell, a little flu was going to keep her from her revenge.

Come eight-o-clock, she was sitting in her first class of the day and struggling to stay focused. If it wasn't for Mongoose driving her to the academy, she was sure she wouldn't have made it in at all. He didn't seem like such a bad guy after they warmed up to the other. She coughed. Wait, never mind. Trying to cough with the bruised ribs he gave her during yesterday's lesson hurt like hell.

Just like what Syra expected, she was released from class to go to the infirmary. The second her test results came back positive with the flu, Syra found herself almost pushed out of the door with a medical prescription in hand. Director Davis was standing in the hallway and waiting for her. He wordlessly motioned she follow him to his office, and she did.

The door was closed behind them, and Davis spoke. "Such a shame you will not be attending classes for the next three days. As bright as you are, it shouldn't take you long to catch up on your homework."

Syra deviously grinned and sneezed. "Sometimes, shit happens we can't control." She reached into her grim reaper hoodie's pocket and took out the metal tube sealed in a plastic baggie.

Davis took it without question. "Go home and take these next three days to get better." There was a sly glint in his dark eyes. "I trust you have a ride home?"

"Goose is waiting in the parking lot. We knew it wouldn't take long for my dismissal." Syra left the office and shuffled to her truck and loaded into the passenger seat. She didn't make it far down the road before she was asleep.

* * *

Night fell over the east coast. STRIKE secured themselves inside the Quinjet for their next 'training' assignment. The aircraft lifted off the ground, leaving Pierce standing nearby and watching. Next stop, the academy.

If it weren't for something as important as the long-awaited mission, Syra wouldn't have gotten out of bed. She slid into her black cargo pants, black tank top, and bloodstained grim reaper hoodie. Next, she put on her pistol's empty thigh holster and attached her two additional magazine cases to her belt.

Standing aside and watching her prepare was Fredricks. Thrown over his shoulder was her AS50 rifle case and in his other hand was her pistol case. "Are you ready, my dear?"

Syra tied up her boot laces and shoved her phone in a pants pocket. "You bet your fucking ass I am."

Fredricks handed her firearms and helped her to his car. The young woman's mind was so distracted by her excitement that she could care less how sick she was. The red Acura pulled into the academy student parking lot where a Quinjet sat like a shadow waiting for them. Slowly, the back hatch opened and out emerged Brock.

Fredricks pulled up as close as he could to the aircraft so Syra wouldn't have so far to walk.

Brock walked towards the young woman hoping for a hug but got punched in the face instead. "Fuck your beautiful sunrise," she spat through an incoming sneeze tickling her nostrils.

The STRIKE lead massaged his jaw and smiled to himself. "It's good to see you too, babe."

As Syra forced her weary body up the ramp, her eyes locked onto Rollins'. She made an effort to walk right past him and without warning, released her pent-up sneeze right on him.

 _"Mother fucker!"_ Rollins fought with his seat's restraints and lunged for the laughing woman. It took Brock and Clark together to hold him back. _"I'm going to kick your fucking ass, bitch!"_

Syra shot him two middle fingers. "That's for setting me up for all those ass whoopings with Mongoose because of your shitty advice."

Brock harshly shoved Rollins back in his seat. "Alright, enough you two!" He pointed at Syra, "You," then to an empty seat next to his unoccupied one, " _sit_!" The back hatch was closed, and the aircraft lifted into the late night sky.

Where she sat placed her directly across the aircraft from Rollins. She gave the enraged agent a taunting smirk as she put her rifle and pistol under her seat. Her focus on his was quickly ripped off Rollins by a paralyzing pain stabbing her in the neck. Syra clutched at the source of the pain to feel a syringe and Brock's hand wrapped around it. "What the fuck?"

"Your cure." The syringe was discarded in an empty biohazard container under his seat. "Everyone else has been inoculated _should_ someone happen to catch your sickness." He sat down next to the woman to see her back to smirking at Rollins.

Syra scoffed. "How effective is it?"

The STRIKE lead's expression was deadpan. "Pretty effective."

"That's too bad." Ten minutes passed by and Syra was unconscious due to the injection she was given. Her lobbing head eventually crashed on Brock's shoulder.

Brody chuckled. "That's her? That's your girl?"

Brock stared at his teammate in warning. "What about it?"

"You better marry that ass, bro. That's a real fucking unicorn, right there."

Rollins jeered. "I hate unicorns."

* * *

The interior of the dimly lit Quinjet was quiet except for Clark's snoring. Lorne cracked a devious smile and felt around in a pocket of his cargo pants. A bag of salted peanuts was taken out, and the bag opened. Several peanuts were poured into Lorne's hand and one at a time were thrown at Clark's open mouth. Brody snickered to himself. Twelve peanuts later and one made it into the sleeping agent's mouth. Clark started to cough in his sleep and quickly woke up. Lorne and Brody boisterously laughed as the peanut was eventually coughed up.

Clark wheezed and looked at the offensive food stuff in his hand. "What the fuck?"

Lorne popped several peanuts into his mouth and sneered. "You were warned, before. If you kept sleeping with your mouth open that you'd wake up to my salty nuts in your mouth."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Brock laughed to himself. "Be glad it was just his nuts and not his dick."

Syra grumbled and rubbed her groggy eyes. "Is this what you people do before missions?" She realized she was cuddled up against the STRIKE lead and blushed. When she tried to sit up, the weight of his arm around her shoulders kept her in place. Obviously, he wanted to keep her at his side. Syra blushed a bit more. "How much further do we have to go?"

"Another hour, give or take a few minutes. How do you feel?"

Syra stretched the best she could in the awkward position she was in. "Better. I still have a headache and some congestion, though." Regardless if Brock wanted her close or not, she needed to sit up and did so, but not without noticing the sad like look in his eyes. "What's the plan? How is this going to go down?"

Rollins answered. It surprised Syra, as she thought he was asleep judging by his semi lounged out and head laid back position. "You stay in the Quinjet like a good little girl while we do all the dirty work." A hazel eye cracked open to stare venomously at the young woman. "When it's your turn, someone will come to get you and hold your hand, so you don't hurt yourself."

Syra smiled just as hatefully as Rollins scowled. "Aww, are you volunteering? That's so sweet."

Clark didn't bother hiding a shit-eating grin. "That's what I heard."

Brock interrupted the moment to avoid having to break up another fight. "My men know the plan. What Rollins said is… _mostly_ right. You will be required to stay back and away from the main fighting. After the decoy team and STRIKE have the area and the primary target secured, that's when you get to do your thing." Syra looked disappointed. "What?"

"I can help from a distance."

Rollins barked, " _No!_ "

Brock wanted to know what was going through his girl's head. "Like how?"

Jade green eyes were deadpan in expression. "Really? I'm a fucking sniper, Brock. I'm not going to sit in this fucking plane playing Go Fish with a babysitter while you and your boys have all the fun."

Brock blinked. Clark looked between his team lead and the cadet. The STRIKE lead sat up straighter and stared in warning at the young woman. "If something happens to you, it's my ass. Secretary Pierce already has my discharge papers written up and is waiting to process them, just knowing you're going to fuck this up somehow. Like hell, I'm going to let you ruin my life!"

Syra patted the man on the leg. "Good thing ruining your life isn't in my plans, tonight. The Turk's, yes, but not yours."

Brock shook his head in refusal. "Your ass is staying back."

"Well being a sniper, I'd prefer staying back. I mean, I don't really see too many snipers getting all up close and personal with their targets."

"Stop being a smartass. You heard me, and that's final."

Syra shrugged. "Stop being a smartass. Got it." She shot the unamused agent a teasing wink.

The Quinjet pilot loudly announced to the passengers, "ETA fifty-minutes."

Syra drug her weapon cases out from under her seat and prepped her pistol first. Once it was loaded and ready to go, it was secured within her thigh holster. Her green eyes lit up with morbid delight as she started to prep her rifle, next.

Brock was conflicted. Seeing his little Huggies willingly and excitedly going into her first bloodbath of a mission had him oddly aroused. At the same time, he was genuinely curious to know what it was going through that pretty little-broken head of hers. What did she have in mind for the Turk? How was she going to off him? In the head, between the eyes with her pistol? With her rifle? From a distance sniper style? The mental images playing out in his head further riled him up. With that look in her eye, he wouldn't doubt it if she decided to stain her precious grim reaper hoodie with the Turk's blood to go along with her deceased husband's.

Across the aircraft, Rollins observed the two lovers. The STRIKE lead was staring in silent awe at the young woman as she wiped down her rifle like a butcher readying their best cleaver before a slaughter. The only question was, just how brutal was the butcher's slaughter going to be? Was she going to bleed the pig out before carving him up? Or just end it all with a bullet to the head? He'd find out in a couple of hours' time, as would anyone else pondering the same thing.


	27. Revenge is Such Sweet Inner Harmony

**26 – Revenge is Such Sweet Inner Harmony**

"ETA twenty minutes."

Syra looked nervously from the pilot and to the STRIKE team members unbuckling their seat harnesses. All but Lorne started to put on a parachute. He just stood there, appearing a bit disgruntled.

Brock saw this in the corner of his eye and frowned. He was the one who pushed for this mission for Syra. It would be fucked up to have one of his men babysit his problem while he went outside to play. He passed Lorne a parachute pack and sighed. "Here. Go. I'll stay back with Cadet Jensen. She's my responsibility anyway."

The words stung Syra. She hoped if anything, the team leader would have chosen to stay with her out of affections, not an obligation. The Quinjet ascended the clouds and hovered in a spot, shy of directly above the mountainside villa below. Brock glanced around at his team, prepped and ready to go. "You know what to do, gentlemen. The decoy team is on standby, awaiting the signal. Rollins, you're in charge until we regroup."

Rollins nodded and mashed on the ramp control console's red button. The ramp lowered, and the interior of the aircraft flooded with fresh air. The agent approached the ramp ledge and leaped out into the night sky. Clark was next, followed by the rest of the STRIKE team. Brock stood aside, regretting having to stay back. His brown eyes found themselves studying the anxiety-stricken cadet. He had a feeling this mission was a terrible idea.

Syra met his watch and bit her lips together in an apologetic frown. She shrugged. "So, what now?"

Brock didn't respond and strode past her to speak with the pilot. "Set us down at the planned coordinates."

"Yes, sir," was given in quick reply.

Syra sat back down, her body numb and mind a whirl with second-guessing. Judging by Brock's change in demeanor, everything leading up to and about this mission had been a pain in the ass and an inconvenience. Maybe her wanting her revenge was a bit selfish. Soldiers, agents, and emergency responders lost their lives all the time, though it was emotionally painful to think about. What made her any different than the others experiencing a loved one's loss to justify burdening a highly trained agency team to hunt down her husband's murderer?

Syra's grip subconsciously tightened around the stock of her sniper rifle as a tear streamed down her cheek. Brock sitting down next to her and speaking snapped her back to reality. "Now's not the time for an anxiety attack, Sy."

"Why is this happening?"

The man was thrown off by the question. "What? What kind of question is that?"

"People lose loved ones all the time, whether it's a soldier on the frontlines or a cop answering a 911 call…" Syra looked desperately to the agent beside her. "Why is HYDRA doing this for me? What makes me so special?"

It took a moment for an answer to come to Brock, and when it did, it was perfect. "HYDRA took something from you when you were a little girl; your family. Now that you're one of us, they want to give you something in return. Call it a peace offering."

Syra wasn't convinced, though the answer sounded good, and returned her distant stare to the floor. Treetops filled the open view of the outside as the Quinjet descended onto solid ground. The STRIKE lead motioned her to follow him, and she did, rifle cradled against her chest. Despite being so close to the equator, Syra still felt an uncomfortable chill in the air, and it radiated off the man in front of her.

The two made their way through knee-high brush to a hillside. Almost a mile away was the glow of the villa's lights. Brock spoke in a voice above a whisper. "You want to help? Fine." He reached into his body vest and removed what looked like a lens cap from a pocket. "Put this on your scope and turn it clockwise." Syra was baffled but did as ordered. "When you look through your scope, you _should_ notice two different heat signatures."

Syra set up her rifle and positioned herself beside it. One peek through the scope towards the villa was exactly as Brock stated. She saw three people patrolling the perimeter wall, two glowing orange towards the left and the third a light blue on the right side. "Two orange, one blue. What about them?"

Brock extended a small pair of SHIELD specialized binoculars and looked through them towards the villa. "Shoot _only_ the orange. Anyone blue is a part of the decoy team."

He stared down at the cadet for any sign of hesitance. Her trembling hand flicked off the safety and readied the rifle. She shook her hand out off to the side in an attempt to stop its trembling before wrapping a finger around the trigger. Brock watched the two orange patrols walk away from each other, one walking towards the blue form. With a steady breath, Syra fired off the first shot.

The far left patrol was shot, first, and from what Brock could tell, in the neck too. Usually, snipers went for a headshot, not the neck. She was probably just nervous, and her shaking hands threw off her aim. If that were the case, he'd have to take over sniping the hostiles should her lousy aim jeopardize the mission. "You missed the head," he flatly stated.

Syra rested her crosshairs on the neck of the second orange figure. Another shot fired and the target fell to the ground. "I'm not aiming for the head. I'm going to make every son of a bitch that gets in my way die just as Mikel did."

Brock turned his head to look back down at the cadet with intrigue. Brody's voice came through his earpiece. "Wait, did I just hear that right? Your girl is _sniping people in the neck_?"

Syra watched the blue figure disappear down a stairwell she couldn't see on the other side of the wall. Both she and the STRIKE lead watched as the parachuting team took out any hostiles within the compound they couldn't see from the hillside.

Brock tapped Syra on the shoulder and waved her to follow. "C'mon and stay low." Syra put her weapon on safety and stayed close to the man. They quickly made their way to the villa.

The young woman thought back on her two kills. "Why did you ask me to shoot those patrols if your men were perfectly capable of doing it themselves?"

"I wanted to see if you'd do it…if you had it in you to follow orders and kill someone."

Syra grabbed Brock by the arm to stop him and stared him intensely in the eye. "You were testing me?" The expression she got as an answer was not the Brock Rumlow she had come to inadvertently care for. His eyes were empty of empathy and his lips a thin, tense line. It was as though he had flicked off the switch on all human emotion at that time.

A series of grenade explosions sounded from somewhere inside the villa. One of the explosions blew out a large window on the second floor of the primary building, causing a plume of smoke to escape into the night sky. Neither of the two people seemed to care as they were more focused on the other.

"It wasn't my choice. I was ordered by Secretary Pierce to test you." Brock jerked his arm out of the woman's grasp and marched on through the underbrush. Syra was pissed and felt sorry for the next enemy target that she took aim on, even if that person wasn't the Turk.

* * *

Standing on the perimeter wall and looking down at a slain female mercenary was Rollins. The toe of his boot was an inch away from a pool of blood surrounding the body. A gruesome gash tore the side of her neck open, the man scoffing. He shouldered his rifle and gazed through its scope to see the heat signatures of Rumlow and Cadet Jensen an estimated three hundred yards away. A series of three more heat signatures were closing in on them from behind.

Rollins spoke into his earpiece. "Alpha leader, you have three hostiles closing in on your position from behind."

No sooner did he speak then a shot was fired, but not from either of the two groups of people. There was another group, unseen due to the jagged terrain. Rollins aimed at one of the three people rushing towards Rumlow and Jensen and shot him. The agent saw the STRIKE lead grab the cadet and hunker down at the base of a tree.

Brock positioned Syra between him and a tree to protect her as he shot his favored pistol at the shadowy figures weaving through the brush. "Keep your head down!" he yelled at the woman, no doubt having an anxiety attack at his feet.

A shot fired from behind him ricocheted off the tree uncomfortably close to his head, causing him to drop to his knees before the next shot made its mark. Syra heard the ricochet and saw where the bullet had been fired from, through the muzzle flash. She looked around for her AS50 to see it laying on the ground a few feet away. She must've dropped it when Brock forced her to take cover. Before her mind could register what she was doing, she had her pistol unholstered and in hand. She tried to focus on the people shooting at them from the darkness and returned fire. Trying to shoot one handed around Brock's knelt down form that almost smothered her proved rather tricky. She wasn't about to let this stop her, though. Her shooting at one of the two targets' position was making them move right into Rollins' line of sight. Syra managed to shoot one mercenary in the leg followed by the agent's rifle fire splitting his head open.

Rollins watched how Rumlow and Jensen fiercely protected the other. They were a sight to be seen, positioned against the other perfectly like two matching puzzle pieces. He smiled in approval. And here he expected her to chicken out and get cold feet. He couldn't be more wrong. From what he saw of the corpses on the perimeter wall and what he saw on the hillside slope, she was going to fit in just fine with the rest of STRIKE.

Brock killed the last of the two mercenaries blocking the way down the hill and grumbled in frustration. He looked down at the young woman balled up against his chest. "You okay?"

Green eyes rolled upwards to meet brown ones, a devious glint in her eye. "That was fun. I thought you said I was supposed to stay back and away from the danger?"

He smirked. "Oh really? What about the part where you said snipers don't get up close and personal with their targets?"

Syra's smile deepened. "Being like everyone else was never my thing, anyway."

It was his turn to smile. "God, I love you." Brock stood up and offered the cadet to her feet. She picked up her rifle and blew off the flecks of dirt on her scope. The STRIKE lead noticed one of his team members on the perimeter wall and questioned into his earpiece. "How's it going with the primary target?"

Clark, wearing a pair of tinted glasses with the same heat signature tech as the specialized scope lens, was joined by Lorne and Brody. The three agents broke away from the others in their team and followed two disguised agents down a charred hallway. They passed a room to the left, smoke billowing out of it through an open window. Two severely burned bodies could be seen amongst the debris of splintered furniture and collapsed roofing.

Clark answered. "We're in pursuit. A decoy thinks he's taken refuge inside a safe room."

"Get inside that room, Mitch. I want him begging for his life by the time I get there."

"Oh, that won't be an issue, Big B," Clark snickered.

An orange heat signature came into view around the hallway's corner and started to shoot at the approaching agents. One of the decoy agents was shot, allowing Lorne a chance to pull the pin from a golf ball sized grenade secured to his body suit. He threw it at the wall behind the opposing mercenary, it bouncing and landing beside him. The mercenary scrambled to flee its blast radius before it could detonate, only to be shot in the head by Brody.

Lorne chuckled. "I love watching people shit themselves over a fake grenade."

Brody fist-bumped his teammate. "It at least provides a long enough distraction to let us off the sons of bitches."

Syra cracked an amused grin. "Big B, huh? Is that an _official_ call sign?"

Brock hung his head dejectedly. "Just…let me know when STRIKE has the target, okay?"

Rollins smirked at Rumlow coming into view of the villa's bright outside lights. "What's wrong, _Big B_? I find it rather fitting, given the amount of _bullshit_ of yours we have to put up with."

Brock waved his pistol in the air. "Do you want to be the next person to eat a bullet from this thing? Keep shit talking."

The second decoy agent leading the three STRIKE agents through the fancy house scurried down a set of semi-circular stairs. The four men arrived at a pair of thick mahogany doors tucked below the staircase in the foyer.

The decoy pointed to the door and explained. "It's heavily secured on the other side with reinforced beams and deadbolts. There's no getting in through conventional means."

"What about _unconventional_ means?" Clark extracted a mouse hole device from his protective vest and activated it. "Knock, knock mother fucker!" He started to carve out the two doors' handles and locking mechanisms.

They fell to the floor in a clatter followed by automatic gunfire aimed at the intruding agents. The men took cover away from the door beside the wall. The Turk was heard yelling something in his native language the others knew had to be a profane tangent.

The decoy agent pointed at the door again. "There's a horizontal reinforcement beam at the top, middle and bottom of the door as well as two vertical ones running alongside the middle of each door. You probably cut through the center beam when you removed the handles and locks."

Clark's eyes narrowed down, and a smile upturned the corner of his lips with a plan. He reactivated the mouse hole and in keeping behind the wall for cover, cut along the far side of the door. He went as high as he could before going back down to the floor. The device was momentarily shut off and thrown to Brody on the other side of the doors. He did just as Clark had done, the sound of the bottom and remaining middle beams colliding with the floor.

Outside, Rollins unlocked and opened the villa's gated main entrance for Rumlow and Cadet Jensen. They strode through the courtyard and to the massive double front doors. Shards of broken stained glass once decorating the tops of the doors crunched under their boots as they entered the house's foyer. Ahead of them was the rest of the STRIKE team, armed and standing outside a spacious study room. Its doors were marred and barely hanging by their hinges from the use of a mouse hole device to get into the room.

In the center of the room was Clark, Lorne, and Brody with rifles drawn. In their sites were the Turk and his wife on their knees and restrained with heavy duty zip ties. Brock signaled for Syra to wait in the foyer while he and Rollins went into the room.

The STRIKE lead scoffed. "I'm disappointed, Yusef. I was hoping for more a challenge, given your big bad reputation. Hell, you put up more of a fight in the town square." Brock pressed the muzzle of his rifle into the terrorist's forehead. "I guess that's what happens when you don't get the upper hand."

The Turkish man spat at the agent's feet. "It took you long enough to catch me… _Agent_. Here, I thought SHIELD was better at tracking their enemies than this."

Brock shrugged. "Why go out of our way to track you down when we knew you'd eventually fall into our trap?" Yusef jerked and struggled against his restraints in anger. "Nah, ah, ah. You better behave yourself."

"Or what? You're going to shoot me?"

A cruel and malicious smile overcame the STRIKE lead's expression. "Oh, I'm not the one who's going to shoot you." He stepped aside and glanced back over his shoulder at a sinister appearing Syra. "She is."

The Turk saw the young woman, her face partially concealed by her jacket's hood, and cocked his head to the side. "Who the fuck is she?"

Brock answered. "You gave the order to one of your snipers to kill a SHIELD sniper… _her husband_. She watched him die…slowly…from blood loss as she tried to save his life. You shouldn't have done that."

Syra snarled in her comment. "Now I'm here to get my revenge."

Yusef laughed out loud. "You? You're just some fucking kid!"

The cadet jerked her pistol from her holster and shot the man in the shoulder. "That's for your sniper with the shitty aim shooting me in the shoulder." Yusef wasn't laughing anymore as he cried out. He fell to the floor in front of his wife, writhing in pain.

Lorne reached down and forced the Turk back on his knees by a handful of his hair. "Get up, you piece of shit!"

Syra holstered her pistol and held up the AS50. "You see this rifle? This belonged to my husband. You see those blood stains? That's _his_ blood!" She shouldered the gun, armed and ready to fire, and aimed it at the man with tears flooding in her eyes. "Your blood is about to join it."

"Fuck you, you little bitch! You don't have the-" _BANG!_

A single bullet fired from the rifle ripped through the side of the man's neck and silenced him of words. He choked and gasped for air as his eyes looked into the chilling green ones staring down at him. The Turk's wife screamed out in horror and wiggled her arms under her legs and to the front of her to try and save her husband.

Brody was about to shoot her, but Syra held up a hand to stop him. Confused by this, he looked to Rumlow for confirmation on the unauthorized order. The STRIKE lead nodded he go along with the cadet's order, curious to see how she was going to handle the rest of the situation.

Syra towered about the two people, watching the second woman do her best to save her husband. Yusef was held tightly against her and a hand pressed against his neck. The cadet spoke. "Don't bother wasting your time." Syra reached behind Brock to remove his field knife he had secured to the back of his pants. Brock looked from the knife and to the young woman made unrecognizable by hate manifested. She then took a knee before the two people to observe the panicked wife. "I know how it feels." Blood spurted from the gash at Yusef's neck and onto his wife and Syra. It even splattered onto a small portion of her face that didn't immediately register to her.

Hysterical dark brown eyes met emotionless green ones. "I'll do whatever you want. _Anything_! Just please don't let him die!"

Syra shook her head. "No. I waited a long time _just_ for this moment. Nothing you say or offer will stop me from enjoying this."

"You're a fucking _monster_!"

Scarred lips crooked into a smile. "I'm the Grim fucking Reaper." Yusef gasped his last breath and went limp, his hand falling to the floor in a pool of his own blood. Syra's left eye and lips twitched in unfathomable satisfaction that flooded every inch of her body. She held the tip of the knife's blade at the wife's left breast where her heart was located and twisted it sideways. "Now, it's your turn to die just as I did… _slowly_ …of a broken heart…that's bled every day since your fucking husband had mine killed." Just as she said, Syra slowly pushed the blade through the opposing woman's ribs and into her heart.

Dark eyes grew wide as she tried to stop the revenge-bent young woman's hands. Her hands caked and made slippery with her husband's blood disallowed any firm grip. The further into the chest the blade was driven, the weaker the woman became.

Syra stopped when the knife's guard stopped it from going any deeper. She sat there, feeling the warmth of the last of the woman's life ebb from her bosom and onto her hand. It streamed down her arm and dripped off her elbow to the floor, where it joined the Turk's.

The STRIKE agents were utterly speechless and lost on what to think. Who knew this little girl was _that_ broken in the head to do something as dark and demented as what she just did. Brock shifted his gaze off Syra and to Clark. The usually composed brick wall of a black man was genuinely shaken in what he had witnessed. Never had the STRIKE lead seen him so alarmed.

Brock cocked a sideways sneer. "Are her hands dirty enough for you, now?"

Just as slowly as Syra had stabbed the Turk's wife, she withdrew the blade. She proceeded to use an unsoiled portion of the woman's light pink sundress to wipe off the blood. Clark blinked. "Holy shit that's fucked up."

With a bloody hand, Syra returned the knife to its sheath on Brock's belt. She gave him a small kiss on the lips and shouldered her rifle. She turned to leave, briefly locking gazes with Rollins as she brushed past him. Everyone watched her walk away, awestruck.

Brock blurted out loud, "I have got the most awkward boner right now."

* * *

By the time the rest of the STRIKE team arrived at the Quinjet, Syra already had her protective body armor shed and her firearms secured in their cases. She was lounged out in her seat, unblinking eyes staring distantly at the floor. At least she managed to wash her hands and face.

The team loaded into their seats as Brock closed the back hatch. "Get us out of here," he called to the pilot. The Quinjet's turbofan engines kicked on and the aircraft lifted into the air. Brock sat down beside Syra and smiled proudly at her. "Congratulations, babe. You're now one of us." Syra's distant stare broke off its fixation on the floor and sailed over to meet the agent's brown eyes. "Once you graduate from the academy, you'll be joining STRIKE fulltime."

Syra mirrored the man's smile and rested her head on his shoulder. Her gawk then fell on Rollins, noticing that he too was smiling at her. He gave her a single nod of his head. "Welcome home…little sis."

An odd inner peace quelled the many weeks' long hunger for revenge Syra had harbored within her. Her smile didn't falter as she replied. "It feels good to be home."


End file.
